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FATHER SERGIUS 



WORKS OF LEO TOLSTOY 

Published by Dodd, Mead & Company 

Resurrection, a Novel 

Hadji Murad, a Novel 

Father Sergius and Other Stories 

The Forged Coupon and Other Stories 

The Man Who Was Dead 

(The Living Corpse) Dramas 

The Light That Shines in Darkness, a Drama 



FATHER SERGIUS 



And Other Stories 



BY 

LEO TOLSTOY 



Edited by Dr. Hagberg Wright 



Frontispiece 




NEW YORK 

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 

1912 



TQS3QC 



Copyright, 1912 
By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 



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NO. I 



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CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Father Sergius .......... 9 

The Wisdom of Children 97 

The Posthumous Papers of the Hermit, Fedor 

Kusmich .. •• 189 

Memoirs of a Lunatic ........ 227 

Two Wayfarers . . . . . . . . . . 253 

Khodinka: an incident of the Coronation of 

Nicholas II 261 

Introduction to " A Mother " 279 

The Memoirs of A Mother 293 

Father Vasily: A Fragment 307 



FATHER SERGIUS 



FATHER SERGIUS 



There happened in St. Petersburg during the 
forties an event which startled society. 

A handsome youth, a prince, an officer in the 
Cuirassiers for whom every one had predicted the 
rank of aide-de-camp and a brilliant career at- 
tached to the person of Emperor Nicholas L, 
quitted the service. He broke with his beautiful 
fiancee, a lady-in-waiting, and a favourite of the 
empress, just a fortnight before the wedding-day, 
and giving his small estate to his sister, retired to 
a monastery to become a monk. 

To those who were ignorant of the hidden 
motives, this was an extraordinary and unaccount- 
able step ; but as regards Prince Stephen Kasatsky 
himself, it was such a natural move that he could 
not conceive an alternative. 

His father, a retired colonel of the Guards, 
died when the son was twelve. Although it was 
hard for his mother to let him go from her, she 
would not act in defiance of the wishes of her late 



no FATHER SERGIUS 

husband, who had expressed the desire that in the 
event of his death the boy should be sent away 
and educated as a cadet. So she secured his ad- 
mission to the corps. 

The widow herself with her daughter Varvara 
moved to St. Petersburg in order to be in the 
same town with the boy and to take him home 
for his holidays. He showed brilliant capacity 
and extraordinary ambition, and came out first in 
military drill, in riding, and in his studies, — 
mathematics especially — for which he had a par- 
ticular liking. 

In spite of his abnormal height he w r as a hand- 
some, graceful lad, and had it not been for his 
violent temper he would have been an altogether 
exemplary cadet. He never drank or indulged 
in any sort of dissipation, and he was particu- 
larly truthful. The fits of fury which maddened 
him from time to time, when he lost all control 
over himself and raged like a wild animal, were 
the only faults in his character. Once, when a 
cadet ragged him because of his collection of min- 
erals, he almost threw the boy out of the win- 
dow. On another occasion he rushed at an offi- 
cer and struck him, it was said, for having bro- 
ken his word and told a direct lie. 

For this he would surely have been degraded 
to the rank of a common soldier, if it had not 



FATHER SERGIUS n 

been for the head of the school, who hushed up 
the matter and dismissed the officer. 

At eighteen Kasatsky left with the rank of lieu- 
tenant and entered an aristocratic Guard regiment. 
The Emperor Nicholas had known him while he 
was in the cadet corps, and had shown him favour 
while in the regiment. It was on this account 
that people prophesied that he would become an 
aide-de-camp. Kasatsky desired it greatly, al- 
though less from ambition than from passionate 
love for the emperor whom he had cherished since 
his cadet days. Each time the emperor visited 
the school — and he visited it very often — as 
Kasatsky saw the tall figure, the broad chest, the 
aquiline nose above the moustache, and the close- 
cropped side whiskers, the military uniform, and 
the brisk, firm step, and heard him greeting the 
cadets in his strident voice, he experienced the mo- 
mentary ecstasy of one who sees his well-beloved. 
But his passionate adoration of the emperor was 
even more intense. He desired to give up some- 
thing, everything, even himself, to show his in- 
finite devotion. The Emperor Nicholas knew 
that he inspired such admiration, and deliberately 
provoked it. He played with the cadets, made 
them surround him, and treated them sometimes 
with childish simplicity, sometimes as a friend, 
and then again with an air of solemn grandeur. 



12 FATHER SERGIUS 

After the incident with the officer, the emperor, 
who did not allude to it, waved Kasatsky theat- 
rically aside when the latter approached him. 
Then, when he was leaving, he frowned and shook 
his finger at the boy, saying, "Be assured that 
everything is known to me; but there are things 
I do not wish to know. Nevertheless they are 
here," and he pointed to his heart. 

When the cadets were formally received by the 
emperor on leaving the school, he did not remind 
Kasatsky of his insubordination, but told them all, 
as was his custom, that they could turn to him in 
need, that they were to serve him and their coun- 
try with loyalty, and that he would ever remain 
their best friend. All were touched — as usual 
• — and Kasatsky, remembering the past, shed 
tears and made a vow to serve his beloved Tsar 
with all his might. 

When Kasatsky entered the regiment, his 
mother and sister left St. Petersburg, going first 
to Moscow and then to their estate in the coun- 
try. Kasatsky gave half his fortune to his sister. 
What remained was quite sufficient to support him 
in the expensive regiment which he had joined. 

Viewed from outside, Kasatsky seemed like an 
ordinary brilliant young officer of the Guards 
making a career for himself. But within his 
soul there were intense and complex strivings. 



FATHER SERGIUS 13 

Although this striving, which had been going on 
ever since his childhood, seemed to vary in its na- 
ture, it was essentially one and the same, and had 
for its object that absolute perfection in every un- 
dertaking which would give him the applause and 
admiration of the world. Whatever it might be, 
accomplishments or learning, he worked to merit 
praise, and to stand as an example to the rest. 
Mastering one subject he took up another, and so 
obtained first place in his studies. For example, 
while he was still in the corps, conscious of a lack 
of fluency in his French, he contrived to master 
the language so that he knew it. like his own. 
Then again, when he became interested in chess 
while still in the corps, he worked at the game till 
he acquired proficiency. 

Apart from the chief end of life, which was in 
his eyes the service of the Tsar and his country, he 
had always some self-appointed aim, and, how- 
ever unimportant it might be, he pursued this with 
his whole soul, and lived for it until it was ac- 
complished. But the moment it was attained an- 
other arose in its place. This passion for distin- 
guishing himself and for pursuing one object in 
order to distinguish himself filled his life. So it 
was that after entering upon his career he set him- 
self to acquire the utmost perfection in the knowl- 
edge of the service, and, except for his uncon- 



i 4 FATHER SERGIUS 

trollable temper, which was sometimes the occa- 
sion of actions that were inimical to his success, 
he soon became a model officer. 

Once, during a conversation in society, he real- 
ised the need of a more general education. So 
setting himself to work to read books, he soon at- 
tained what he desired. Then he wanted to hold 
a brilliant position in aristocratic society. He 
learned to dance beautifully, and was presently 
invited to all the balls and parties in the best cir- 
cles. But he was not satisfied with this. He was 
accustomed to being first in everything, and in 
this instance he was very far from that. Society 
at that time consisted, as I suppose it has done in 
every time and place, of four kinds of people — 
rich people who are received at court; people who 
are not rich, but are born and brought up in court 
circles; rich people who ape the court; and peo- 
ple, neither rich nor of the court, who copy both. 

Kasatsky did not belong to the first two, but 
was gladly received in the last two sets. On en- 
tering society his first idea was that he must have 
a liaison with a society lady; and quite unexpect- 
edly it soon came about. Presently, however, he 
realised that the circle in which he moved was not 
the most exclusive, and that there were higher 
spheres, and that, notwithstanding he was re- 
ceived there, he was a stranger in their midst. 



FATHER SERGIUS 15 

They were polite to him, but their manner made 
it plain that they had their own intimates, and 
that he was not one of them. Kasatsky longed 
to be one of them. To attain this end he must 
become an aide-de-camp — which he expected to 
be — or else he must marry into the set. He re- 
solved upon this latter course. His choice fell 
upon a young girl, a beauty, belonging to the 
court, and not merely belonging to the circle he 
wished to move in, whose society was coveted by 
the most distinguished and the most firmly rooted 
in this circle. This was the Countess Korotkova. 
Kasatsky began to pay court to her purely for the 
sake of his career; she was uncommonly attractive, 
and he very soon fell in love with her. She was 
noticeably cool towards him at first, and then sud- 
denly everything changed. She treated him gra- 
ciously, and her mother continually invited him 
to the house. 

Kasatsky proposed, and was accepted. He 
was rather astonished at the facility with which 
he gained his happiness, and he noticed something 
strange in the behaviour towards him of both 
mother and daughter. He was deeply in love, 
and love had made him blind, so he failed to 
realise what nearly the whole town knew — that 
the previous year his fiancee had been the favour- 
ite of the Emperor Nicholas. 



1 6 FATHER SERGIUS 

Two weeks before the day arranged for the 
wedding Kasatsky was at Tsarskoye Selo, at the 
country place of his fiancee. It was a hot day in 
May. The lovers had had a walk in the garden, 
and were sitting on a bench in the shade of the 
lindens. Mary looked exceedingly pretty in her 
white muslin dress. She seemed the personifica- 
tion of love and innocence — now bending her 
head, now gazing at her handsome young lover, 
who was talking to her with great tenderness and 
self-restraint, as though he feared by look or ges- 
ture to offend her angelic purity. Kasatsky be- 
longed to those men of the 'forties, who do not 
exist nowadays, who deliberately, while condon- 
ing impurity in themselves, require in their wives 
the most ideal and seraphic innocence. Being 
prepared to find this purity in every girl of their 
set, they behaved accordingly. This theory, in 
so far as it concerned the laxity which the men per- 
mitted themselves, was certainly altogether wrong 
and harmful; but in its relation to the women I 
think, compared with the notion of the modern 
young man who sees in every girl nothing but a 
mate or a female, there was much to be said for 
it. The girls, perceiving such adoration, en- 
deavoured with more or less success to be god- 
desses. 

Kasatsky held the views of his time, and looked 



FATHER SERGIUS 17 

with such eyes upon his sweetheart. That day 
he was more in love than ever, but there was 
nothing sensual in his feelings towards his 
fiancee. On the contrary he regarded her with 
the tender adoration of something unattainable. 
He rose and stood at his full height before her, 
leaning with both hands on his sabre. 

" Now for the first time I know what happi- 
ness is. And it is you — darling — who have 
given me that happiness," he said, smiling shyly. 

He was still at that stage where endearments 
are not yet a habit, and it made him gasp to think 
of using them to such an angel. 

" It is you who have made me see myself 
clearly. You have shown me that I am better 
than I thought," he added. 

"I knew it long ago. That is what made me 
begin to love you." 

The nightingales were beginning their song 
somewhere near, and the young leaves moved in 
the sudden gusts of wind. He raised her hand 
to his lips and there were tears in his eyes. 

She understood* that he was thanking her for 
having said that she loved him. He took a few 
steps backwards and forwards, remaining silent, 
then approached her again, and sat beside her. 

" You know, when I began to make love to 
you, it was not disinterested on my part. I 



1 8 FATHER SERGIUS 

wanted to get into society. And then, when I 
came to know you better, how little all that mat- 
tered, compared to you ! Are you angry with me 
for that?" 

She did not answer, but touched his hand. He 
understood that it meant " I am not angry." 

" Well, you said — " he stopped. It seemed 
too bold to say what he intended. " You said 

— that you — began to love me — forgive me 

— I quite believe it — but there is something 
that troubles you and stands in the way of your 
feelings. What is it?" 

" Yes — now or never," she thought. " He 
will know it anyhow. But now he will not for- 
sake me because of it. Oh, if he should, how 
dreadful ! " And she gazed with deep affection 
upon that tall, noble, powerful figure. She loved 
him now more than the Tsar, and were it not for 
Nicholas being an emperor, her choice between 
them would rest on Kasatsky. 

" Listen," she said, " I cannot deceive you. I 
must tell you everything. You asked me what 
stood in the way. It is that I have loved be- 
fore." 

She again laid her hand on his with an implor- 
ing gesture. 

He was silent. 



FATHER SERGIUS 19 

" Do you want to know who it was? The em- 
peror." 

"We all loved him, I can imagine you, a 
school-girl in the institute • — " 

" No. After that. It was only a passing in- 
fatuation, but I must tell you — " 

"Well — what?" 

"No; it was not simply — " She covered her 
face with her hands. 

" What! You gave yourself to him? " 

She was silent. 

" His mistress? " 

Still she did not answer. 

He sprang to his feet, and pale as death, with 
his teeth chattering, stood before her. He now 
remembered how the emperor, meeting him on 
the Nevsky, had congratulated him. 

" Oh, my God, what have I done! Stephen! " 

"Don't touch me — don't touch me! Oh, 
how terrible ! " 

He turned and went to the house. 

There he met her mother. 

"What's the matter with you, prince? " she 
stopped, seeing his face. The blood rushed sud- 
denly to his head. 

" You knew it! And you wanted me to shield 
them! Oh, if you weren't a woman — " he 



20 FATHER SERGIUS 

shouted, raising his large fist. Then he turned 
and ran away. 

Had the lover of his fiancee been a private 
individual he would have killed him. But it was 
his beloved Tsar. 

The next day he asked for furlough, and then 
for his discharge. Feigning illness, he refused to 
see any one, and went away to the country. 

There he spent the summer putting his affairs 
in order. When summer was over he did not 
return to St. Petersburg, but entered a monastery 
with the intention of becoming a monk. 

His mother wrote to dissuade him from this 
momentous step. He answered that he felt a 
vocation for God which was above all other con- 
siderations. It was only his sister, who was as 
proud and ambitious as himself, who understood 
him. 

She was quite right in her estimate of his mo- 
tives. His becoming a monk was only to show 
his contempt for all that seemed most important 
to the rest of the world, and had seemed so to 
himself while he was still an officer. He climbed 
to a pinnacle from which he could look down on 
those he had previously envied. However, con- 
trary to his sister's opinion, this was not the only 
guiding motive. Mingled with his pride and his 
passion for ascendancy, there was also a genuine 



FATHER SERGIUS 21 

religious sentiment which Varvara did not know 
he possessed. His sense of injury and his disap- 
pointment in Mary, whom he had thought such 
an angel, were so poignant that they led him to 
despair. His despair led where? To God, to 
faith, to a childish faith which had never been 
destroyed. 



II 



On the feast of the Intercession of the Virgin, 
Kasatsky entered the monastery to show his su- 
periority over all those who fancied themselves 
above him. 

The abbot was a nobleman by birth, a learned 
man, and a writer. He belonged to that monas- 
tic order which hails from Walachia, the mem- 
bers of which choose, and in their turn are chosen, 
leaders to be followed unswervingly and implic- 
itly obeyed. 

This abbot was the disciple of the famous Am- 
brosius, disciple of Makardix of the Leonidas, 
disciple of PaTssy Velichkovsky. 

To this abbot Kasatsky submitted himself as to 
the superior of his choice. 

Beside the feeling of ascendancy over others, 
which Kasatsky felt in the monastery as he had 
felt it in the world, he found here the joy of at- 
taining perfection in the highest degree inwardly 
as well as outwardly. As in the regiment, he had 
rejoiced in being more than an irreproachable 
officer, even exceeding his duties; so as a monk 
his endeavour was to be perfect, industrious, ab- 

22 



FATHER SERGIUS 23 

stemious, meek, and humble: and, above all, 
pure, not only in deed but in thought; and obe- 
dient. This last quality made his life there far 
easier. In that much-frequented monastery there 
were many conditions objectionable to him, but 
through obedience he became reconciled to them 
all. 

" It is not for me to reason. I have but to 
obey, whatever the command." On guard be- 
fore the sacred relics, singing in the choir, or add- 
ing up accounts in the hostelry, all possibility of 
doubt was silenced by obedience to his superior. 
Had it not been for that, the monotony and 
length of the church service, the intrusion of vis- 
itors and the inferiority of the other monks, 
would have been extremely distasteful to him. 
But as it was he bore it all perfectly and found 
it even a solace and a support. 

" I don't know," he thought, " why I ought to 
hear the same prayers many times a day, but I 
know that it is necessary, and knowing this I 
rejoice." His superior had told him that as food 
is necessary for the life of the body, so is spir- 
itual food, such as prayers in church, necessary 
for maintaining the life of the spirit. He be- 
lieved it, and though he found the service for 
which he had to rise at a very early hour a diffi- 
culty, it brought him indubitable comfort and joy. 



2 4 FATHER SERGIUS 

This was the result of humility and the certainty 
that anything done in obedience to the superior 
was right. 

The aim of his life was neither the gradual at- 
tainment of utter subjugation of his will, nor the 
attainment of greater and greater humility; but 
the achievement of all those Christian virtues 
which seemed in the beginning so easy of posses- 
sion. 

Being not in the least half hearted, he gave 
what fortune remained to him to the monastery 
without regret. 

Humility before his inferiors, far from being 
difficult, was a delight to him. Even the victory 
over the sins of greed and lust were easy for him. 
The superior had especially warned him against 
this latter sin, but Kasatsky was glad to feel im- 
munity from it. He was only tortured by the 
thought of his -fiancee. It was not only the 
thought of what had been; but the vivid picture 
of what might have been. He could not resist 
recalling to himself the image of the famous mis- 
tress of the emperor who afterwards married and 
became a good wife and mother. Her husband 
had a high position, influence, and esteem, and a 
good and penitent wife. 

In his better hours Kasatsky was not distressed 
by this thought. At such times he rejoiced that 



FATHER SERGIUS 25 

these temptations were past. But there were mo- 
ments when all that went to make up his present 
life grew dark before his mind; moments when, 
if he did not actually cease to believe in the foun- 
dation of his present life, he was at least unable 
to perceive it; when he could not discover the ob- 
ject of his present life; when he was overcome 
with recollections of the past, and terrible to say, 
with regret at having abandoned the world. His 
only salvation in that state of mind was obedience 
and work, and prayers the whole day long. He 
went through his usual forms at prayers, he even 
prayed more than was his wont, but it was lip- 
service, and his soul took no part. This condi- 
tion would sometimes last a day or two days, and 
would then pass away. But these days were hid- 
eous. Kasatsky felt that he was neither in his 
own hands nor God's, but subject to some outside 
will. All he could do at those times was to fol- 
low the advice of his superior and undertake noth- 
ing, but simply wait. 

On the whole, Kasatsky lived then, not accord- 
ing to his own will but in complete obedience to 
his superior; and in that obedience he found 
peace. 

Such was Kasatsky' s life in his first monastery, 
which lasted seven years. At the end of the 
third year he was ordained to the priesthood and 



26 FATHER SERGIUS 

was given the name of Sergius. The ordination 
was a momentous event in his inner life. He had 
previously experienced great comfort and spirit- 
ual uplifting at holy communions. At first, when 
he was himself celebrating mass, at the moment 
of the oblation, his soul was filled with exaltation. 
But gradually this sense became dulled; and when 
on one occasion he had to celebrate mass in an 
hour of depression as he sometimes had, he felt 
that this exaltation could not endure. The emo- 
tion eventually paled until only the habit was left. 

On the whole, in the seven years of his life in 
the monastery, Sergius began to grow weary. All 
that he had to learn, all that he had to attain 
was done, and he had nothing more to do. 

But his stupefaction only increased. During 
that time he heard of his mother's death and of 
Mary's marriage. Both events were matters of 
indifference to him, as all his attention and all his 
interest were concentrated on his inner life. 

In the fourth year of his monastic experience, 
during which the bishop had shown him marked 
kindness, his superior told him that in the event 
of high honours being offered to him he should 
not decline. Just then monastic ambition, pre- 
cisely that quality which was so disgusting to him 
in all the other monks, arose within him. He 
was sent to a monastery close to the capital. He 



FATHER SERGIUS 27 

would have been glad to refuse, but his superior 
ordered him to accept, so he obeyed, and taking 
leave of his superior, left for the other monastery. 

This transfer to the monastery near the me- 
tropolis was an important event in Sergius's life. 
There he encountered many temptations, and his 
whole will power was concentrated on the strug- 
gle they entailed. In the first monastery women 
were no trial to him, but in the second instance 
this special temptation assumed grave dimensions 
and even took definite shape. 

There was a lady known for her frivolous be- 
haviour, who began to seek his favour. She 
talked to him and asked him to call upon her. 
Sergius refused with severity, but was horrified 
at the definiteness of his desire. He was so 
alarmed that he wrote to his superior. More- 
over, for the sake of humiliation, he called a 
young novice and, conquering his shame, con- 
fessed his weakness. He begged him to keep an 
eye on him and not let him go anywhere but to 
service and to do penance. 

Besides that, Sergius suffered severely on ac- 
count of his great antipathy to the abbot of this 
monastery, a worldly man and clever in worldly 
ways who was making a career for himself within 
the church. In spite of his most earnest en- 
deavours, Sergius could not overcome his dislike 



28 FATHER SERGIUS 

for him. He was submissive to him, but in his 
heart he criticised him unceasingly. At last, 
when he had been there nearly two years, his real 
sentiments burst forth. 

On the feast of the Intercession of the Virgin, 
the vesper service was being celebrated in the 
church proper. There were many visitors from 
the neighbourhood, and the service was con- 
ducted by the abbot himself. Father Sergius was 
standing in his usual place, and was praying; that 
is to say, he was engaged in that inner combat 
which always occupied him during service, espe- 
cially in this second monastery. 

The conflict was caused by his irritation at the 
presence of all the fine folk and especially the 
ladies. He tried not to notice what was going 
on around him. He could not help, however, 
seeing a soldier who while conducting the better 
dressed people pushed the common crowd aside, 
and noticing the ladies who pointed out the 
monks, often himself and another monk as well, 
who was noted for his good looks. He tried to 
concentrate his mind, to see nothing but the light: 
of the candles on the ikonostasis, the sacred im- 
ages, and the priests. He tried to hear nothing 
but the prayers which were spoken and chanted; 
to feel nothing but self-oblivion in the fulfilment 
of his duty. This was a feeling he always ex- 



FATHER SERGIUS 29 

perienced when he listened to prayers and antici- 
pated the word in the prayers he had so often 
heard. 

So he stood, crossing himself, prostrating him- 
self, struggling with himself, now indulging in 
quiet condemnation, and now giving himself up 
to that obliteration of thought and feeling which 
he voluntarily induced in himself. 

When the treasurer, Father Nicodemus (also 
a great stumbling-block in Father Sergius's way 
— that Father Nicodemus!), whom he couldn't 
help censuring for flattering and fawning on the 
abbot, approached him, and saluting him with a 
low bow that nearly bent him in two, said that the 
abbot requested his presence behind the holy 
gates, Father Sergius straightened his cassock, 
covered his head, and went circumspectly through 
the crowd. 

" Lise, regardes a droite — c'est lui," he heard 
a woman's voice say. 

" Ou, ou? II n'est pas tellement beau! " 

He knew they were referring to him. As his 
habit was when he was tempted, he repeated, 
" Lead us not into temptation." Dropping his 
eyes and bowing his head, he walked past the 
lectern and the canons, who at that moment were 
passing in front of the ikonostasis; and went be- 
hind the holy gates by the north portal. Ac- 



3 o FATHER SERGIUS 

cording to custom, he crossed himself, bending 
double before the ikon. Then he raised his head 
and looked at the abbot, whom, together with 
some one standing beside him in brilliant array, 
he had already seen out of the corner of his eye. 

The abbot stood against the wall in his vest- 
ments, taking his short fat hands from beneath 
his chasuble and folding them on his fat stom- 
ach. Fingering the braid on his chasuble, he 
smiled as he talked to a man wearing the uniform 
of a general in the emperor's suite, with insignia 
and epaulettes, which Father Sergius at once rec- 
ognised with his experienced military eye. This 
general was a former colonel in command of his 
regiment, who now evidently held a very high 
position. Father Sergius at once noticed that the 
abbot was fully aware of this, and was so pleased 
that his fat red face and his bald head gleamed 
with satisfaction. Father Sergius was grieved 
and disgusted, and all the more so when he heard 
from the abbot that he had only sent for him to 
satisfy the curiosity of the general, who wanted 
to see his famous " colleague," as he put it. 

" I am so glad to see you in your angelic guise," 
said the general, holding out his hand. " I hope 
you have not forgotten your old comrade." 

The whole thing — the abbot's red and smiling 
face above his white beard in evident approval of 



FATHER SERGIUS 31 

the general's words; the well-scrubbed face of 
the general with his self-satisfied smile, the smell 
of wine from the general's breath, and the 
smell of cigars from his whiskers — made Sergius 
boil. 

He bowed once more before the abbot, and 
said, " Your grace deigned to call me — " and he 
stopped, asking by the very expression of his face 
and eyes, " What for?" 

The abbot said, " Yes, to meet the general." 

11 Your grace, I left the world to save myself 
from temptation," he said, pale and with quiver- 
ing lips; " why, then, do you expose me to it dur- 
ing prayers in the house of God? " 

" Go ! go ! " said the abbot, frowning and grow- 
ing angry. 

Next day Father Sergius asked forgiveness of 
the abbot and of the brethren for his pride. But 
at the same time, after a night spent in prayer, 
he decided that his only possible course was to 
leave this monastery; so he wrote a letter to his 
superior imploring him to grant him leave to re- 
turn to his monastery. He wrote that he felt 
his weakness and the impossibility of struggling 
alone against temptation without his help. He did 
penance for his sin of pride. The next post 
brought him a letter from the superior, who wrote 
that the sole cause of all his trouble was pride. 



32 FATHER SERGIUS 

The old man explained to him that his fits of an- 
ger were due to the fact that in refusing all clerical 
honour he humiliated himself not for the sake of 
God, but for the sake of his pride; merely for the 
sake of saying to himself: " Now, am I not a 
splendid fellow not to desire anything?" That 
was why he could not tolerate the abbot's action. 
" I have renounced everything for the glory of 
God, and here I am exhibited like a wild beast ! " 
" If you would just give up vanity for God's glory 
you would be able to bear it," wrote the old man; 
" worldly pride is not yet dead in you. I have 
thought often of you, Sergius, my son. I 
have prayed also, and this is God's message 
with regard to you: Go on as you are, and sub- 



mit." 



At that moment tidings came that the recluse 
Hilary, a man of saintly life, had died in the 
hermitage. He had lived there for eighteen 
years. The abbot of that hermitage inquired 
whether there was not a brother who would take 
his place. 

" Now with regard to that letter of yours," 
wrote the superior, " go to Father Pai'ssy, of the 

T Monastery. I have written to him about 

you, and asked him to take you into Hilary's cell. 
I do not say you could replace Hilary, but you 



FATHER SERGIUS 33 

want solitude to stifle your pride. And may God 
bless you in your undertaking." 

Sergius obeyed his superior, showed his letter 
to the abbot, and, asking his permission, gave up 
his cell, handed all his belongings over to the 
monastery, and departed for the hermitage at 
T . 

The abbot of that hermitage, a former mer- 
chant, received Sergius calmly and quietly, and 
left him alone in his cell. This cell was a cave 
dug in a mountain, and Hilary was buried there. 
In a niche at the back was Hilary's grave, and in 
front was a place to sleep, a small table, and a 
shelf with ikons and books. At the entrance 
door, which could be closed, was another shelf. 
Upon that shelf food was placed once a day by a 
brother from the monastery. 

So Father Sergius became a hermit. 



Ill 



During the Carnival in Sergius's second year of 
seclusion a merry company of rich people, ladies 
and gentlemen from the neighbouring town, made 
up a troika party after a meal of carnival pan- 
cakes and wine. The company was composed of 
two lawyers, a wealthy landowner, an officer, and 
four ladies. One of the ladies was the wife of the 
officer; another was the wife of the landowner; 
the third was his sister, a young girl; the fourth 
was a divorcee, beautiful, rich, a little mad, whose 
ways gave rise to amazement and indignation in 
the town. 

The night was fine ; the roads smooth as a floor. 
They drove ten miles out of town, and then held 
a consultation as to whether they should turn back 
or go on. 

" But where does this road lead?" asked 
Madame Makovkin, the beautiful divorcee. 

" To T , twelve miles further on," said the 

lawyer who was having a flirtation with Madame 
Makovkin. 

"And beyond?" 

34 



FATHER SERGIUS 35 

" Then to L , past the monastery." 

" Oh, the one where Father Sergius is? " 

" Yes." 

" The handsome hermit — Kasatsky." 

" Yes." 

11 Oh ■ — messieurs et mesdames ! — let us go in 

and see Kasatsky. We can rest at T and 

have a bite." 

" But we shan't get home to-night? " 

11 We'll just spend the night at Kasatsky's 
then." 

11 Of course. There is a hostelry at the mon- 
astery, and a very good one. When I was de- 
fending Makine I stopped there." 

" No, I shall spend the night at Kasatsky's ! " 

" Even your great power, dear lady, could not 
make that possible." 

"Not possible? I'll bet you!" 

" Good! If you spend the night at Kasatsky's 
I'll pay you whatever you like." 

"A discretion! " 

11 And you the same, remember." 

"Agreed! Let's start." 

TKey gave the driver some wine, and they 
opened a basket of pies, cakes, and wines for 
themselves. The ladies drew their white furs 
round about them. The postillions broke into a 
dispute as to which should go ahead, and the 



36 FATHER SERGIUS 

younger one, turning sharply round, lifted his 
whip-handle high up and shouted at the horses; 
the bells tinkled, and the runners creaked beneath 
the sledge. The sledge swayed and rocked a lit- 
tle ; the outer horses trotted smoothly and briskly, 
with their tightly-bound tails under the gaily dec- 
orated breech-bands. The slippery road faded 
away rapidly. The driver held the reins 
tightly. 

The lawyer and the officer who sat on the back 
seat talked nonsense to Madame Makovkin's 
neighbour, and she herself, huddled in her furs, 
sat motionless and in thought. 

" Eternally the same old things! The ugliness 
of it. Shiny red faces reeking with liquor and 
with tobacco, the same words, the same thoughts, 
for ever the same abomination; and they are all 
content and satisfied that it should be so, and thus 
they will go on till they die. But I can't — it 
bores me. I want something to happen that will 
upset and shatter the whole thing. We might at 
least be frozen to death as they were at Saratov. 
What would these people do? How would they 
behave? Execrably, I suppose. Everybody 
would think of nothing but himself, and I no less 
than the rest. But I have beauty — that's some- 
thing. They know it. Well — and that monk 
fr-s I wonder if he really is indifferent to beauty. 



FATHER SERGIUS 37 

No, they all care for it, just like that cadet last 
autumn. And what a fool he was ! " 

" Ivan Nicolaievich," she said. 

He answered, "Yes?" 

"How old is he?" 

"Who?" 

" Why, Kasatsky." 

" Over forty, I should think." 

" Does he receive visitors? Does he see every- 
body?" 

" Everybody, yes; but not always." 

"Cover up my feet. Not that way *— = how 
clumsy you are? Yes, like that. But you 
needn't squeeze them." 

Thus they came to the forest where the cell 
was. 

She stepped out of the sledge and bade them 
drive on. They tried to dissuade her, but she 
grew irritable, and commanded them to go on. 

Father Sergius was now forty-nine years old. 
His life in solitude was very hard: not because 
of fasting and prayers. He endured those easily. 
But it was the inner struggle which he had not 
anticipated. There were two reasons for this 
struggle : his religious doubts and the temptations 
of desire. He thought these were two different 
fiends. But they were one and the same. When 
his doubts were gone lust was gone. But think- 



3 8 FATHER SERGIUS 

ing these were two different devils, he fought them 
separately. They, however, always attacked him 
together. 

"O my God, my God," he cried, " why dost 
Thou not give me faith? There is lust of course, 
but even St. Anthony and the rest had to fight 
that; but faith — they had that! There are mo- 
ments and hours and days when I do not possess 
it. Why does the world exist with all its charm, 
if it is sinful and we must renounce it? Why hast 
Thou created this temptation? Temptation? 
But isn't this temptation to renounce the joys of 
the world and to prepare for the life beyond, 
where there is nothing and where there can be 
nothing?." Saying this to himself, he became 
horrified and filled with disgust at himself. 

" You vile thing ! And you think of being a 
saint! " he said. 

He rose to pray. But when he began praying 
he saw himself as he appeared at the monastery 
in his vestments and all his grandeur, and he 
shook his head. 

" No, that is not so. It is a lie. I may de- 
ceive all the world, but not myself, and not God. 
I am insignificant. I am pitiable." And he 
pushed back the skirts of his cassock, and gazed 
at his thin legs in their underclothing. 

Then he dropped his robe again, and began to 



FATHER SERGIUS 39 

repeat his prayers, making the sign of the cross 
and prostrating himself. 

"Will that couch be my bier?" he read; and, 
as if a demon whispered to him, he heard: " The 
solitary couch is also the coffin." 

"It is a lie! " and he saw in imagination the 
shoulders of a widow who had been his mistress. 
He shook himself and went on reading. After 
having read the precepts he took up the Gospels. 
He opened the book at a passage that he had 
often repeated and knew by heart. 

" Lord, I believe. Help thou my unbelief." 

He stifled the doubts that arose. Just as one 
replaces an object without disturbing its balance, 
he carefully put his faith back into its position 
while it trembled at its base, and stepped back 
cautiously so as neither to touch it nor upset it. 
He again pulled himself together and regained his 
peace of mind and repeating his childish prayer: 
" O Lord, take me, take me ! " felt not only at 
ease, but glad and thrilled. He crossed himself 
and lay down to sleep on his narrow bench, put- 
ting his light summer garment under his head. 
He dropped off to sleep at once. In his light 
slumber he heard small tinkling bells. He did 
not know whether he was dreaming or waking. 
But a knock at the door aroused him. He sat up 
on his couch, not trusting his senses. The knock 



4 o FATHER SERGIUS 

came again. ;Yes, it was nearer, it was at his own 
door, and after it came the sound of a woman's 
voice. 

" My God ! is it true that the devil takes the 
form of a woman, as I have read in the lives of 
the saints? Yes — it is a woman's voice! So 
timid — so sweet — so tender ! " And he spat to 
exorcise the devil. " No ! It was only imagina- 
tion! " and he went to the corner where the lec- 
tern stood and fell on his knees, his regular and 
habitual motion that of itself gave him comfort 
and pleasure. He bowed low, his hair falling 
forward on his face, and pressed his bare fore- 
head to the damp, cold floor. There was a 
draught from the floor. He read a psalm which, 
as old Father Piman had told him, would ward off 
the assaults of the devil. His light, slender 
frame started up upon its strong limbs, and he 
meant to go on reading his prayers. But he did 
not read. He involuntarily inclined his head to 
listen. He wanted to hear more. 

All was silent. From the corner of the roof 
the same regular drops fell into the tub below. 
Without was a mist, a fog that swallowed up the 
snow. It was still, very still. There was a sud- 
den rustle at the window, and a distinct voice, the 
same tender, timid voice, a voice that could only 
belong to a charming woman. 



FATHER SERGIUS 41 

" Let me in, for Christ's sake." 

All the blood rushed to his heart and settled 
there. He could not even sigh. 

" May the Lord appear and his enemies be con- 
founded." 

11 But I am not the devil!" 

He could not hear that the words were spoken 
by smiling lips. " I am not the devil. I am just 
a wicked woman that's lost her way, literally and 
figuratively." (She laughed.) "I am frozen, 
and I beg for shelter." 

He put his face close to the window. The 
little ikon lamp was reflected in the glass. He 
put his hands up to his face and peered between 
them. Fog, mist, darkness, a tree, and — at the 
right — She herself, a woman in thick white furs, 
in a fur cap with a lovely, lovely, gentle, fright- 
ened face, two inches away, leaning towards him. 
Their eyes met and they recognised each other — 
not because they had ever seen each other before. 
They had never met. But in the look they 
exchanged they felt — and he particularly — 
that they knew each other; that they under- 
stood. 

After that glance which they exchanged how 
could he entertain any further doubt that this was 
the devil instead of just a sweet, timid, fright- 
ened woman? 



42 FATHER SERGIUS 

"Who are you? Why have you come?" he 
asked. 

" Open the door, I say," she said with a whim- 
sical authority. " I tell you I've lost my way." 

" But I am a monk — a hermit." 

" Open that door all the same. Do you want 
me to freeze while you say your prayers? " 

"But how—" 

" I won't eat you. Let me in for God's sake. 
I'm quite frozen." 

She began to be really frightened and spoke 
almost tearfully. 

He stepped back into the room, looked at the 
ikon representing the Saviour with His crown of 
thorns. 

" God help me — help me, O God! " he said, 
crossing himself and bowing low. Then he went 
to the door which opened into the little porch, 
and feeling for the latch tried to unhook it. He 
heard steps outside. She was going from the win- 
dow to the door. 

" Oh! " he heard her exclaim, and he knew she 
had stepped into a puddle made by the dripping 
rain. His hands trembled, and he could not move 
the hook which stuck a little. 

" Well, can't you let me in? I'm quite soaked, 
and I'm frozen. You are only bent on saving 
your own soul while I freeze to death." 



FATHER SERGIUS 4 3 

He jerked the door towards him in order to 
raise the latch, and then, unable to measure his 
movements, pushed it open with such violence 
that it struck her. 

" Oh — pardon!" he said suddenly, reverting 
to his former tone with ladies. 

She smiled, hearing that " pardon." " Oh, 
well, he's not so dreadful," she thought. " Never 
mind; it is you who must pardon me," she said, 
passing by him. " I would never have ventured, 
but such an extraordinary circumstance — " 

" If you please," he said, making way for her. 

He was struck by the fragrance of fine perfume 
that he had not smelt for many a long day. 

She went through the porch into the chamber. 
He shut the outer door without latching it and 
passed into the room after her. Not only in his 
heart but involuntarily moving his lips he repeated 
unceasingly, " O Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, 
have mercy on me, a sinner, have mercy on me, a 



sinner." 



" If you please," he said to her again. 

She stood in the middle of the room, dripping, 
and examined him closely. Her eyes smiled. 

" Forgive me for disturbing your solitude," she 
said, " but you must see what a position I am 
placed in. It all came about by our coming out 
for a drive from town. I made a wager that I 



44 FATHER SERGIUS 

would walk by myself from Vorobievka to town. 
But I lost my way. That's how I happened to 
find your cell." Her lies now began. 

But his face confused her so that she could not 
proceed, so she stopped. She expected him to be 
quite different from the man she saw. He was 
not as handsome as she had imagined, but he was 
beautiful to her. His grey hair and beard, 
slightly curling, his fine, regular features and his 
eyes like burning coals when he looked straight 
at her, impressed her profoundly. He saw that 
she was lying. 

" Yes; very well," he said, looking at her and 
dropping his eyes. " Now I will go in there, and 
this place is at your disposal." 

He took the burning lamp down from before 
the ikon, lit a candle, and making a low bow went 
out to the little niche on the other side of the par- 
tition, and she heard him begin to move some- 
thing there. 

" He is probably trying to shut himself up away 
from me," she thought, smiling. Taking off her 
white fur, she tried to remove her cap, but it 
caught in her hair and in the knitted shawl she 
was wearing underneath it. She had not got wet 
at all standing outside at the window. She said 
so only as a pretext to be admitted. But she had 
really stepped into a puddle at the door, and her 



FATHER SERGIUS 4 5 

left foot was wet to the ankle, and one shoe was 
full of water. She sat down on his bed, a bench 
only covered with a carpet, and began to take her 
shoes off. The little cell pleased her. It was 
about nine feet by twelve, and as clean as glass. 
There was nothing in it save the bench on which 
she sat, the book-shelf above it, and the lectern in 
the corner. On the door were nails where his fur 
coat and his cassock hung. Beside the lantern 
was the image of Christ with His crown of thorns, 
and the lamp. The room smelt strangely of oil 
and of earth. She liked everything, even that 
smell. Her wet feet were uncomfortable, the left 
one especially, and she took off her shoes and 
stockings, never ceasing to smile. She was happy 
not only in having achieved her object, but be- 
cause she perceived that he was troubled by her 
presence. He, the charming, striking, strange, 
attractive man! 

" Well, if he wasn't responsive, it doesn't mat- 
ter," she said to herself. " Father Sergius! 
Father Sergius ! — or what am I to call 
you!" 

" What do you want? " answered a low voice. 

11 Please forgive me for disturbing your soli- 
tude, but really I couldn't help it. I would have 
fallen ill. And even now I don't know if I shan't. 
I'm quite wet and my feet are like ice." 



46 FATHER SERGIUS 

" Pardon me," answered the quiet voice. " I 
cannot be of any assistance to you." 

" I would not have come if I could have helped 
it. I shall only stop till dawn." 

He did not answer. She heard him muttering 
something, probably his prayers. 

" I hope you will not come in here," she said, 
smiling, " for I must undress to get dry." 

He did not answer, continuing to read his pray- 
ers in a steady voice. 

" That is a man," she thought, as she attempted 
to remove her wet shoe. She tugged at it in vain 
and felt like laughing. Almost inaudibly, she did 
laugh; then, knowing that he would hear, and 
would be moved by it just as she wanted him to 
be, she laughed louder. The kind, cheerful, nat- 
ural laughter did indeed affect him just as she had 
wished. 

" I could love a man like that. Such eyes; and 
his simple, noble face, passionate in spite of all 
the prayers it mutters. There's no fooling us 
women in that. The instant he put his face 
against the window-pane and saw me, he knew me 
and understood me. The glimmer of it was in 
his eyes and a seal was set upon it for ever. That 
instant he began to love me and to want me. 
Yes — he wants me," she said, finally getting off 
her shoe and fumbling at her stocking. 



FATHER SERGIUS 4 7 

To remove those long stockings fastened with 
elastic, she had to raise her skirts. She felt em- 
barrassed and said, " Don't come in." But there 
was no answer from the other side and she heard 
the same monotonous murmurs and movements. 

" I suppose he's bowing down to the ground," 
she thought, " but that won't help him. He's 
thinking about me just as I'm thinking about 
him. He's thinking about these very feet of 
mine," she said, taking off the wet stockings and 
sitting up on the couch barefooted, with her hands 
clasped about her knees. She sat awhile like 
this, gazing pensively before her. 

" It's a perfect desert here. Nobody would 
ever know — " 

She got down, took her stockings over to the 
stove and hung them on the damper. It was 
such a quaint damper! She turned it, and then 
slipping quietly over to the couch she sat up there 
again with her feet upon it. There was absolute 
silence on the other side of the partition. She 
looked at the little watch hanging round her neck. 
Two o'clock. " My people will return about 
three." She had more than an hour before her. 

" Well ! Am I going to sit here by myself the 
whole time? Nonsense! I don't like that. I'll 
call him at once. Father Sergius! Father Ser- 
gius! Sergei Dimitrievich ! Prince Kasatsky!" 



48 FATHER SERGIUS 

No answer. 

" I say ! That's cruel. I wouldn't call you if 
I didn't need you. I'm ill. I don't know what's 
the matter," she said in a tone of suffering. 
"Oh! oh!" she groaned, falling back on the 
couch, and, strange to say, she really felt that she 
was getting faint, that everything ached, that she 
was trembling as if with fever. 

"Here, listen! Help me! I don't know 
what's the matter with. Oh ! oh ! " 

She opened her dress, uncovering her breast, 
and raised her arms, bare to the elbows, above ier 
head. "Oh, oh!" 

All this time he stood on the other side of the 
door and prayed. 

Having finished all the evening prayers, he 
stood motionless, fixing his eyes on the end of his 
nose, and praying in his heart he repeated with all 
his soul : " Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have 
mercy on me ! " 

He had heard everything. He had heard how 
the silk rustled when she took off her dress; how 
she stepped on the floor with her bare feet. He 
heard how she rubbed her hands and feet. He 
felt himself getting weak, and thought he might 
be lost at any moment. That was why he prayed 
unceasingly. His feelings must have been some- 
what like those of the hero in the fairy tale who 



FATHER SERGIUS 49 

had to go on and on without ever turning back. 
Sergius heard and felt that the danger was there 
just above his head, around him, and that the only 
way to escape it was not to look round on it for an 
instant. Then suddenly the desire to see her came 
upon him, and at that very instant she exclaimed, 
" Now this is monstrous ! I may die." 

11 Yes, I will come. But I will go like that 
saint who laid one hand upon the adulteress but 
put the other upon burning coals." 

But there were no burning coals. He looked 
round. The lamp ! The lamp ! 

He put a finger over the flame and frowned, 
ready to endure. In the beginning it seemed to 
him that there was no sensation. But then of a 
sudden, before he had decided whether it hurt 
him or how much it hurt him, his face writhed, 
and he jerked his hand away, shaking it in the 
air. 

" No, that I can't do." 

" For God's sake, come to me. I am dying. 
Oh!" 

"Must I be lost? No! I'll come to you 
presently," he said, opening the door. And with- 
out looking at her he passed through the room to 
the porch where he used to chop wood. He felt 
about to find the block and the axe which were 
leaning against the wall. 



50 FATHER SERGIUS 

" Presently! " he said, and taking the axe in his 
right hand, he laid the forefinger of his left hand 
upon the block. He raised the axe and struck at 
the finger below the second joint. The finger 
flew off more lightly than wood, and bounding 
up, turned over on the edge of the block and 
then on to the floor. Sergius heard that sound 
before he realised the pain, but ere he could re- 
cover his senses he felt a burning pain and the 
warmth of the flowing blood. He hastily pressed 
the end of his cassock to the maimed finger, 
pressed it to his hip, and going back into her 
room stood before the woman. 

" What do you want? " he asked her in a low 
voice. 

She looked at his pale face with its trembling 
cheeks and felt ashamed. She jumped up, 
grasped her fur, and throwing it around her shoul- 
ders tucked herself up in it. 

" I was in pain — I've taken cold — I — 
Father Sergius — I — " 

He turned his eyes, which were shining with the 
quiet light of joy upon her, and said, — 

" Dear sister, why have you desired to lose 
your immortal soul? Temptation must come into 
the world, but woe to him by whom temptation 
cometh. Pray that God may forgive us both." 

She listened and looked at him. Suddenly she 



FATHER SERGIUS 51 

heard the sound of something dripping. She 
looked closely and saw that blood was dropping 
from his hand on to his cassock. 

" What have you done to your hand? " 

She remembered the sound she had heard, and 
seizing the little ikon lamp ran out to the porch; 
there on the floor she saw the bloody finger. 

She returned with her face paler than his, and 
wanted to say something. But he went silently 
to his little apartment and shut the door. 

11 Forgive me," she said. " How can I atone 
for my sin? " 

" Go." 

11 Let me bind your wound." 

" Go hence." 

She dressed hurriedly and silently and sat in 
her furs waiting. 

The sound of little bells reached her from out- 
side. 

" Father Sergius, forgive me." 

" Go « — God will forgive you." 

11 Father Sergius, I will change my life. Do 
not forsake me." 

11 Go." 

" Forgive — and bless me! " 

11 In the name of the Father and of the Son and 
of the Holy Ghost," she heard from behind the 
door. " Go." 



52 FATHER SERGIUS 

She sobbed and went out from the cell. 
The lawyer came forward to meet her. 

II Well," he said, " I see I have lost. There's 
no help for it. Where will you sit? " 

II I don't care." 

She took a seat in the sledge and did not speak 
a word till they reached home. 

A year later she entered a convent as a novice 
and led a life of severe discipline under the guid- 
ance of hermit R who wrote her letters at 

long intervals. 



IV 



Another seven years Father Sergius lived as a 
hermit. In the beginning he accepted a great 
part of what people used to bring him — tea, 
sugar, white bread, milk, clothes, and wood. 

But as time went on he led a life of ever greater 
austerity. Refusing anything that could be 
thought superfluous, he finally accepted nothing 
but rye bread once a week. All that was brought 
to him he gave to the poor who visited him. 

His entire time was spent in his cell in prayer 
or in conversation with visitors whose number 
continually increased. 

Father Sergius appeared in church only three 
times a year, and when it was necessary he went 
out to fetch water and wood. 

After the episode with Madame Makovkin, the 
change he effected in her life, and her taking the 
veil, the fame of Father Sergius increased. Vis- 
itors came in greater and greater numbers, and 
monks came to live in his neighbourhood. A 
church was built there, and a hostelry. Fame, as 
usual, exaggerated his feats. People came from 

53 



54 FATHER SERGIUS 

a great distance and began bringing invalids to 
him in the belief that he could heal them. 

His first cure happened in the eighth year of 
his seclusion. He actually healed a boy of four- 
teen brought to him by his mother who insisted 
on Father Sergius putting his hand on the child's 
head. The idea had never occurred to him that 
he could heal the sick. He would have regarded 
such a thought as a great sin of pride. 

But the mother who brought the boy never 
ceased imploring him, on her knees. 

" Why wouldn't he help her son when he 
healed other people?" she asked, and again be- 
sought him in the name of Christ. 

When Father Sergius replied that only God 
could heal, she said she wanted him only to lay 
his hands on his head and pray. 

Father Sergius refused and went back to his 
cell. But next morning — for this happened in 
the autumn and the nights were already cold — ■ 
coming out of his cell to fetch water, he saw the 
same mother with her child, the same boy of 
fourteen, and heard the same petitions. 

Father Sergius remembered the parable of the 
righteous judge, and contrary to his first instinct 
that he must indubitably refuse, he began to pray, 
and prayed until a resolve formed itself in his 
soul. This decision was that he must accede to 



FATHER SERGIUS 55 

the woman's request, and that her faith was suffi- 
cient to save her child. As for him, Father Ser- 
gius, he would be in that case but the worthless 
instrument chosen by God. 

Returning to the mother, Father Sergius yielded 
to her request, put his hand on the boy's head and 
prayed. 

The mother left with her son. In a month the 
boy was cured, and the fame of the holy healing 
power of " old Father Sergius," as he was called 
then, spread abroad. From that time not a week 
passed without sick people coming to Father Ser- 
gius. 

Complying with the requests of some, he could 
not refuse the rest; he laid his hands on them and 
prayed. Many were healed and his fame be- 
came more and more widespread. 

Having thus passed seven years in the monas- 
tery and many years in the hermitage, he looked 
now like an old man. He had a long grey beard, 
and his hair had grown thin. 



Now Father Sergius had for weeks been haunted 
by one relentless thought, whether it was right for 
him to have acquiesced in a state of things not so 
much created by himself as by the archimandrite 
and the abbot. 

This state of things had begun after the heal- 
ing of the boy of fourteen. Since that time Ser- 
gius felt that each passing month, each week and 
each day, his inner life had somehow been de- 
stroyed and a merely external life had been sub- 
stituted for it. It was as if he had been turned 
inside out. Sergius saw that he was a means of 
attracting visitors and patrons to the monastery, 
and that, therefore, the authorities of the monas- 
tery tried to arrange matters in such a way that he 
might be most profitable to them. For instance, 
he had no chance of doing any work. Everything 
was provided that he could require, and the only 
thing they asked was that he should not refuse 
his blessing to the visitors who came to seek it. 
For his convenience days were appointed on which 
he should receive them. A reception room was 
arranged for men; and a place was also enclosed 

56 



FATHER SERGIUS 57 

by railings in order that the crowds of women 
who came to him should not overwhelm him, a 
place where he could bestow his blessing upon 
those who came. 

When he was told that he was necessary to 
men, and that if he would follow the rule of 
Christ's love, he could not refuse them when 
they desired to see him, and that his holding aloof 
from them would be cruel, he could not but agree. 

But the more he gave himself up to such an 
existence the more he felt his inner life trans- 
formed into an external one. He felt the fount 
of living water drying up within him; and that 
everything he did now was performed more and 
more for man and less for God. Whatever l}e 
did, whether admonishing or simply blessing, or 
praying for the sick, or giving advice on the con- 
duct of life, or listening to expressions of grati- 
tude from those he had helped, or healed (as they 
say) or instructed or advised, he could not help 
feeling a certain pleasure when they expressed 
their gratitude to him. Neither could he be in- 
different to the results of his activity, nor to his 
influence. He now thought himself a shining 
light. But the more he harboured that idea, the 
more he was conscious of the fact that the divine 
light of truth which had previously burned within 
him was flickering and dying. 



5 8 FATHER SERGIUS 

" How much of what I do is done for God and 
how much for man? " That was the question 
that tormented him. Not that he could not find 
an answer to it, but he dared not give an answer. 
He felt deep down in his soul that the devil had 
somehow changed all his work for God into work 
for man. Because just as it had formerly been 
hard for him to be torn from solitude, now soli- 
tude itself was hard. He was often wearied with 
visitors, but in the bottom of his heart he en- 
joyed their presence and rejoiced in the praise 
which was heaped on him. 

There came a time when he made up his mind 
to go away, to hide. He even thought out a 
plan. He got ready a peasant shirt and peasant 
trousers, a coat and a cap. He explained that 
he wanted them to give to the poor, and he kept 
these clothes in his cell, thinking how he would 
one day put them on and cut his hair, and go 
away. First he would take a train and travel for 
about three hundred miles. Then he would get 
out and walk from village to village. He asked 
an old soldier how he tramped; if people gave 
alms, and whether they admitted wayfarers into 
their houses. The soldier told him where peo- 
ple were most charitable, and where they would 
take a wanderer in for the night, and Father Ser- 
gius decided to act on his advice. One night, he 



FATHER SERGIUS 59 

even put on those clothes and was about to go. 
But he did not know which was best, to remain 
or to run away. For a time he was undecided. 
Then the state of indecision passed. He grew ac- 
customed to the devil and yielded to him; and the 
peasant clothes only served to remind him of 
thoughts and feelings that were no more. 

Crowds flocked to him increasingly from day to 
day, and he had less and less time for prayers and 
for renewing his spiritual strength. Sometimes, 
in his brighter moments, he thought he was like 
a place where a brook had once been. There 
had been a quiet stream of living water which 
flowed out of him and through him, he thought. 
That had been real life, the time when she had 
tempted him. He always thought with ecstasy 
of that night and of her who was now Mother 
Agnes. She had tasted of that pure water. 
Since then the water had hardly been given time 
to collect before those who were thirsty arrived 
in crowds, pushing one another aside, and they 
had trodden down the little brook until nothing 
but mud was left. So he thought in his clearer 
moments; but his ordinary state of mind was 
weariness and a sort of tenderness for himself 
because of that weariness. 

It was spring, the eve of a festal day. Father 
Sergius celebrated Vespers in the church in the 



6o FATHER SERGIUS 

cave. There were as many people as the place 
could hold — about twenty altogether. They all 
belonged to the better classes, rich merchants and 
such like. Father Sergius admitted every one to 
his church, but a selection was made by the monk 
appointed to serve him and by a man on duty 
who was sent to the hermitage every day from the 
monastery. A crowd of about eighty pilgrims, 
chiefly women, stood outside, waiting for Father 
Sergius to come out and bless them. In that part 
of the service, when he went to the tomb of his 
predecessor to bless it, he felt faint, and stag- 
gered, and would have fallen had it not been for 
a merchant who served as deacon who caught 
him. 

" What is the matter with you? Father Ser- 
gius, dear Father Sergius! O God!" exclaimed 
a woman's voice. " He is as white as a sheet! " 

But Father Sergius pulled himself together and 
though still very pale, pushed aside the deacon 
and the merchant and resumed the prayers. 
Father Serafian, the deacon, and the acolytes and 
a lady, Sophia Ivanovna, who always lived 
close by the hermitage to attend on Father 
Sergius, begged him to bring the service to an 
end. 

" No, there's nothing the matter," said Father 
Sergius, faintly smiling from beneath his mous- 



FATHER SERGIUS 61 

tache and continuing his prayers. " Ah, that is 
the way of saints," he thought. 

U A holy man — an angel of God," he heard 
Sophia Ivanovna and the merchant who had sup- 
ported him a moment before murmur. He did 
not heed their entreaties, but went on with the 
service. Crowding one another as before, they 
all filed through narrow passages back into the 
little church where Father Sergius completed ves- 
pers, merely curtailing the service a little. Di- 
rectly after this, having pronounced the benedic- 
tion on those present, he sat down outside on a 
little bench beneath an elm tree at the entrance to 
the cave. He wanted to rest; to breathe fresh 
air. He felt the need of it; but the moment he 
appeared, a crowd of people rushed to him so- 
liciting his blessing, his advice, and his help. In 
the crowd was a number of women, pilgrims going 
from one holy place to another, from one holy 
man to another, ever in ecstasy before each sanc- 
tuary and before each saint. 

Father Sergius knew this common, cold, irre- 
ligious, unemotional type. As for the men in the 
crowd, they were for the most part retired sol- 
diers, long unaccustomed to a settled life, and 
most of them were poor, drunken old men who 
tramped from monastery to monastery merely for 
a living. The dull peasantry also flocked there, 



62 FATHER SERGIUS 

men and women, with their selfish requirements 
seeking healing or advice in their little daily in- 
terests; how their daughters should be married, 
or a shop hired, or land bought, or how a woman 
could atone for a child she had lain over in sleep 
and killed, or for a child she had borne out of 
wedlock. 

All this was an old story to Father Sergius and 
did not interest him. He knew he would hear 
nothing new from them. The spectacle of their 
faces could not arouse any religious emotion in 
him. But he liked to look at them as a crowd 
which was in need of his benediction and revered 
his words. This made him like the crowd, al- 
though he found them fatiguing and tiresome. 

Father Serafian began to disperse the people 
saying that Father Sergius was weary. But 
Father Sergius recollected the words of the Gos- 
pel, " Suffer the little children to come unto me 
and forbid them not," and touched at his recol- 
lection of the passage he permitted them to ap- 
proach. He rose, walked to the little railing be- 
yond which the crowd had gathered, and began to 
bless them, but his answers to their questions were 
so faint that he was moved at hearing himself. 

Despite his wish to receive them all, it was 
too much for him. Everything grew dark again 
before his eyes, and he staggered and grasped the 



FATHER SERGIUS 63 

railings. He felt the blood rushing to his head, 
and grew pale and then scarlet. 

" I must leave the rest till to-morrow, I can do 
no more now," he said, and pronouncing a gen- 
eral benediction, returned to the bench. 

The merchant supported him again, and taking 
him by the arm assisted him to be seated. Voices 
exclaimed in the crowd, — 

" Father, dear father, don't forsake us. We 
are lost without you." 

The merchant, having helped Father Sergius 
to the bench under the elm tree, took upon him- 
self the duties of policeman and began energet- 
ically to disperse the crowd. It was true he spoke 
in a low voice so that Father Sergius could not 
overhear, but he spoke very decidedly and in an 
angry tone. 

11 Get away, get away, I say! He has blessed 
you. What else do you want? Get along! or 
you'll catch it. Move on there ! Get along 
there, old woman, with your dirty rags. Go on ! 
Where do you think you're going; I told you it 
was finished. To-morrow's coming, but to-day 
he's done, I tell you! " 

11 Dear father ! I only want to look on his 
dear face with my own little eyes," said an old 
woman. 

11 Little eyes indeed! You don't get in here! " 



64 FATHER SERGIUS 

Father Sergius noticed that the merchant was 
doing it rather too thoroughly, and spoke to his 
attendant saying the crowd was not to be turned 
away. He knew perfectly well that the crowd 
would be dispersed all the same, and he desired 
to remain alone and rest, but he sent his attendant 
with the order merely to make an impression. 

" Well — well — I'm not turning them away; 
I'm only talking to them," answered the merchant. 
" They'll drive the man to death. They have no 
mercy. They're only thinking of themselves. 
No, I say! Get away! To-morrow!" and he 
drove them all away. 

The merchant took all this trouble because he 
loved order and liked to turn people away and 
abuse them; but more because he wanted to have 
Father Sergius to himself. He was a widower 
and had an only daughter, an invalid and unmar- 
ried. He had brought her fourteen hundred 
miles to Father Sergius to be healed. During the 
two years of the girl's illness he had taken her to 
various cures. First to the university clinic in 
the principal town of the province, but this was 
not of much use; then to a peasant in the -prov- 
ince of Samara, who did her a little good. After- 
wards he took her to a doctor in Moscow and 
paid him a huge fee ; but this did not help at all. 
Then he was told that Father Sergius wrought 



FATHER SERGIUS 65 

cures, so he brought her to him. Consequently 
when he had scattered the crowd he approached 
Father Sergius, and falling upon his knees with- 
out any warning, he said in a loud voice, — 

"Holy Father! Bless my afflicted child and 
heal her of her sufferings. I venture to pros- 
trate myself at your holy feet," and he put one 
hand on another, palms up, cup-wise. All this 
he did as if it were something distinctly and rig- 
idly appointed by law and usage; as if it were 
the sole and precise method by which a man 
should request the healing of his daughter. He 
did it with such conviction that even Sergius felt 
for the moment that that was just the right way. 
However he bade him rise from his knees and 
tell him what the trouble was. The merchant 
said that his daughter, a girl of twenty-two, had 
fallen ill two years before, after the sudden death 
of her mother. She just said " Ah! " as he put 
it, and went out of her mind. He had brought 
her fourteen hundred miles, and she was waiting 
in the hostelry till Father Sergius could receive 
her. She never went out by day, being afraid 
of the sunlight, but only after dusk. 

11 Is she very weak? " asked Father Sergius. 

" No, she has no special weakness, but she's 
rather stout, and fhe doctor says she's neuras- 
thenic. If you will just let me fetch her, Father 



66 FATHER SERGIUS 

Sergius, I'll be back with her in a minute. Re- 
vive, O holy father, the heart of a parent, restore 
his line, and save my afflicted offspring with your 
prayers ! " and the merchant fell down on his 
knees again and bending sideways with his head 
over his palms, which appeared to hold little heaps 
of something, remained like a figure in stone. 
Father Sergius again told him to get up, and 
thinking once more how trying his work was, and 
how patiently he bore it in spite of everything, 
sighed heavily. After a few moments' silence, 
he said: 

" Well, bring her to-night. I will pray over 
her. But now I am weary," and he closed his 
eyes. " I will send for you." 

The merchant went away, stepping on tiptoe, 
which made his boots creak still louder, and 
Father Sergius remained alone. 

Father Sergius's life was filled with church 
services and with visitors; but this day was par- 
ticularly difficult. In the morning an important 
official had come to hold a long conference with 
him. Then a lady came with her son. ^The son 
was a young professor, an unbeliever, and his 
mother, who was ardently religious and devoted 
to Father Sergius, brought him to Father Sergius 
that he might talk to him. The talk was very 
trying. The young man evidently did not wish 



FATHER SERGIUS 67 

to have a discussion with the monk, and just 
agreed with him in everything, as w T ith an in- 
ferior. Father Sergius saw that the youth was 
an infidel, but that he had nevertheless a clear and 
tranquil conscience. The memory of the conver- 
sation was now unpleasant to him. 

" Won't you eat something, Father Sergius?" 
asked the attendant. 

"Very well — bring me something." 

The attendant went to a little hut built ten 
paces from the cave, and Father Sergius remained 
alone. 

The time was long past when Father Sergius 
lived alone, doing everything for himself and 
having but a holy wafer and bread for nourish- 
ment. He had been warned long ago that he 
had no right to be careless of his health and he 
was given wholesome meals, although of Lenten 
quality. He did not eat much, but more than he 
had done; and sometimes he even felt a pleasure 
in eating; the disgust and the sense of sin he had 
experienced before was gone. 

He took some gruel and had a cup of tea with 
half a roll of white bread. The attendant went 
away while he remained alone on the bench under 
the elm-tree. It was a beautiful evening in May. 
The leaves of the birches, the aspens, the elms, 
the alder bushes, and the oaks were just beginning 



68 t FATHER SERGIUS 

to blossom. The alder bushes behind the elms 
were still in full bloom. A nightingale was sing- 
ing near at hand, and two or three more in the 
bushes down by the river trilled and warbled. 
From the river came the songs of working-men, 
perhaps on their way home from their labour. 
The sun was setting behind the forest and was 
throwing little broken rays of light among the 
leaves. This side was bright green and the other 
side was dark. Beetles were flying about and, 
colliding together, were falling to the ground. 
After supper Father Sergius began to repeat a 
prayer mentally: 

" O Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have 
mercy on us," and then he read a psalm. Sud- 
denly, in the middle of the psalm a sparrow flew 
out from a bush on the ground, and hopping 
along, came to him; then it flew away frightened* 
He was reading a prayer that bore upon renun- 
ciation of the world and hastened to get to the 
end of it in order that he might send for the mer- 
chant and his daughter. He was interested in 
the daughter because she offered a sort of diver- 
sion, and also because she and her father thought 
him a saint, a saint whose prayer was efficacious. 
He repudiated the idea, but in the depths of his 
soul he nevertheless concurred. He often won- 



FATHER SERGIUS 69 

dered how he, Sergius Kasatsky, had contrived to 
become such an extraordinary saint and worker of 
miracles, but that it was a fact he did not doubt. 
He could not fail to believe in the miracles he 
saw with his own eyes, beginning with the sick boy 
and ending with this last old woman who had re- 
covered her sight through his prayers. Strange 
as it was, it was a fact. Accordingly the mer- 
chant's daughter interested him as a new individ- 
ual that had faith in him, and besides, as an 
occasion of bearing witness to his healing power 
and to his fame. 

11 People come thousands of miles. Papers 
talk about it. The emperor knows. All Europe 
knows — all godless Europe." And then he felt 
ashamed of his vanity and began to pray: 

" God, King of Heaven, Comforter, True Soul, 
come into — inspire me — and cleanse me from 
all sin, and save, O All-merciful, my soul. 
Cleanse me from the sin of worldly vanity that 
has overtaken me," he said, remembering how 
often he had made that prayer and how vain it 
had been. His prayers worked miracles for 
others, but as for himself God had not granted 
him strength to conquer this petty passion. He 
remembered his prayers at the commencement of 
his seclusion when he asked for the grace of pur- 



7 o FATHER SERGIUS 

ity, humility, and love, and how it seemed to 
him at that time that God heard his prayers. He 
had retained his purity and had hewn off his fin- 
ger. He raised the stump of the finger with folds 
of skin on it to his lips, and kissed it. It seemed 
to him now, that at that time when he had been 
filled with disgust at his own sinfulness, he had 
been humble; and that he had also possessed love. 
He recalled also the tender feelings with which 
he had received the old drunken soldier who had 
come to ask alms of him; and how he had received 
her. And now; he asked himself whether he 
loved anybody; whether he loved Sophia Ivan- 
ovna or Father Serafian ; whether he had any feel- 
ing of love for those who had come to him that 
day. He asked himself if he had felt any love 
toward the learned young man with whom he had 
held that instructive discussion with the object 
only of showing off his own intelligence and prov- 
ing that he had not fallen behind in knowledge. 

He wanted love from them, and rejoiced in it; 
but felt no love himself for them. Now he had 
neither love nor humility. He was pleased to 
hear that the merchant's daughter was twenty- 
two, and was anxious to know if she was good- 
looking. When he inquired if she was weak, he 
only wanted to know if she had feminine charm. 
" Is it true that I have fallen so low?" he 



FATHER SERGIUS 71 

thought. " God help me ! Restore my strength 
- — restore me, O God my Saviour!" and he 
clasped his hands and began to pray. 

The nightingales sang, a beetle flew at him and 
crept along the back of his neck. He brushed it 
away. 

" But does He exist? What if I am knocking 
at a house which is locked from without. The bar 
is on the door, and we can see it. Nightingales, 
beetles, nature are the bar to our understanding. 
That young man was perhaps right." He began 
to pray aloud, and prayed long, till all these 
thoughts disappeared and he became calm and 
firm in the faith. He rang the bell, and told the 
attendant to say that the merchant might now 
come with his daughter. 

The merchant came, leading his daughter by 
the arm, and brought her to the cell, where he 
left her. 

The daughter was pale, with fair hair. She 
was very short, and had a frightened, childish 
face and full figure. Father Sergius remained 
seated on the bench at the entrance. When the 
girl passed him and stood near him he blessed 
her, feeling aghast because of the way in which 
he looked at her figure. As she passed by him, 
he felt a sting. He saw by her face that she was 
sensual and feeble minded. He rose and entered 



72 FATHER SERGIUS 

his cell. She was sitting on a stool waiting for 
him, and when he entered she rose. 

" I want to go back to my papa," she said. 

" Do not be afraid," he said. " Where do you 
feel pain?" 

" I feel pain all over," she answered, and sud- 
denly her face brightened with a smile. 

" You will regain your health," he said. 
" Pray." 

"What's the use? IVe prayed. It doesn't 
help," and she continued smiling. " I wish you 
would pray and lay your hands on me. I saw 
you in a dream." 

"How so?" 

" I saw you put your hand on my chest." 

She took his hand and pressed it to her breast. 

" Here." 

He yielded his right hand to her. 

"What is your name?" he asked, his whole 
body shaking, and feeling that he was overcome 
and could not control his instinct. 

"Marie, why?" 

She took his hand and kissed it, and then 
put her arm around his waist and pressed 
him. 

"Marie, what are you doing?" he said. 
" You are a devil, Marie!" 

" Oh, perhaps. Never mind." 



FATHER SERGIUS 73 

And embracing him, she sat down at his side 
on the bed. 

At dawn he went out of the door. Had all 
this really happened? Her father would come. 
She would tell. " She's a devil. But what have 
/ done? Oh, there is the axe which I used to 
chop off my finger." 

He took the axe and went back to the cell. 

The attendant came toward him. " Do you 
want some wood cut? Give me the axe." 

He gave him the axe, and entered the cell. 
She lay asleep. He looked on her with horror. 
Going back into the cell he put on the peasant 
clothes, seized the scissors, cut his hair, and then, 
issuing forth, took the path down the hill to the 
river, where he had not been for four years. 

The road ran along the river. He went by it, 
walking till noon. Then he went into a cornfield 
and lay among the corn. Toward evening he ap- 
proached a village, but did not enter it. He 
went again to the river, to a cliff. 

It was early morning, half an hour before sun- 
rise. All was grey and mournful around him, 
and a cold, early morning wind blew from the 
west. 

" I must end it all. There is no God. How 
can I do it? Throw myself in! I can swim; 



74 FATHER SERGIUS 

I should not drown. Hang myself? Yes; just 
with this belt, to a branch," 

This seemed so feasible and so easy that he 
wanted to pray, as he always did in moments of 
distress. But there was nothing to pray to. God 
was not. He dropped down on his elbow, and 
such a longing for sleep instantly overcame him 
that he couldn't hold his head up with his arm 
any longer. Stretching out his arm, he laid his 
head upon it and went to sleep. But this sleep 
lasted only a moment. He woke at once, and 
what followed was half dream and half recol- 
lection. 

He saw himself as a child in the house of his 
mother in the country. A carriage was approach- 
ing, and out of it stepped Uncle Nicholas Sergei- 
vich, with a long black beard like a spade, and 
with him a slender girl, Pashinka, with large soft 
eyes and a timid, pathetic little face. This girl 
was taken to the place where the boys were play- 
ing, and they were forced to play with her, which 
was very tedious indeed. She was a silly little 
girl, and it ended in their making fun of her, and 
making her show them how she swam. She lay 
down on the floor and went through the motions. 
They laughed and turned her into ridicule ; which, 
when she became aware of it, made her blush in 
patches. She looked so piteous that his con- 



FATHER SERGIUS 75 

science pricked him, and he could never forget 
her kind, submissive, tremulous smile. Sergius 
remembered how he had seen her since then. A 
long time ago, just before he became a monk, she 
had married a landowner who had squandered all 
her fortune, and who beat her. She had two chil- 
dren, a son and a daughter; but the son died when 
he was little, and Sergius remembered seeing her 
very wretched after that, and then again at the 
monastery, when she was a widow. She was still 
just the same, not exactly stupid, but insipid, in- 
significant, and piteous. She had come with her 
daughter and her daughter's fiance. They were 
poor at that time, and later on he heard that she 
was living in a little provincial town and was al- 
most destitute. 

"Why does she come into my head?" he 
asked himself, but still he could not help thinking 
about her. " Where is she? What has become 
of her? Is she as unhappy as she was when she 
had to show us how she swam on the floor? But 
what's the use of my thinking of her now? My 
business is to put an end to myself." 

Again he was afraid, and again, in order to 
spare himself, he began to think about her. Thus 
he lay a long time, thinking now of his extraor- 
dinary end, now of Pashinka. She seemed some- 
how the means of his salvation. At last he fell 



76 FATHER SERGIUS 

asleep, and in his dream he saw an angel, who 
came to him and said : — 

" Go to Pashinka. Find out what you have to 
do, and what your sin is, and what is your way 
of salvation." 

He awoke, convinced that this was a vision 
from on high. He rejoiced, and resolved to do 
as he was told in the dream. He knew the town 
where she lived, three hundred miles away, so he 
walked to that place. 



VI 



Pashinka was no longer Pashinka. She had be- 
come Praskovia Mikhailovna, old, wrinkled, and 
shrivelled, the mother-in-law of a drunken offi- 
cial, Mavrikiev — a failure. She lived in the lit- 
tle provincial town where he had occupied his last 
position, and had supported the family: a daugh- 
ter, a nervous, ailing husband, and five grand- 
children. Her sole means of supporting them 
was by giving music lessons to the daughters of 
merchants for fifty kopeks an hour. She had 
sometimes four, sometimes five lessons a day, and 
earned about sixty roubles a month. They all 
lived for the moment on that in expectation of an- 
other situation. She had sent letters to all her 
friends and relations, asking for a post for her 
son-in-law, and had also written to Sergius, but 
the letter had never reached him. 

It was Saturday, and Praskovia Mikhailovna 
was kneading dough for currant bread such as the 
cook, a serf on her father's estate, used to make, 
for she wanted to give her grandchildren a treat 
on Sunday. 

77 



78 FATHER SERGIUS 

Her daughter Masha was looking after her 
youngest child, and the eldest boy and girl were 
at school. As for her husband, he had not slept 
that night, and was now asleep. Praskovia Mik- 
hailovna had not slept well either, trying to ap- 
pease her daughter's anger against her hus- 
band. 

She saw that her son-in-law, being a weak 
character, could not talk or act differently, and 
she perceived that the reproaches of his wife 
availed nothing. All her energies were employed 
in softening these reproaches. She did not want 
harsh feelings and resentment to exist. Physi- 
cally she could not stand a condition of ill-will. 
It was clear to her that bitter feelings did not 
mend matters, but simply made them worse. She 
did not think about it. Seeing anger made her 
suffer precisely as a bad odour or a shrill sound or 
a blow. 

She was just showing Lucaria, the servant, how 
to mix the dough when her grandson, Misha, a 
boy six years old, with little crooked legs in darned 
stockings, ran into the kitchen looking frightened. 

" Grandmother, a dreadful old man wants to 
see you ! " 

Lucaria looked out of the door. 

" Oh, ma'am, it's a pilgrim." 

Praskovia Mikhailovna wiped her thin elbows 



FATHER SERGIUS 79 

with her hands, and then her hands on her apron, 
and was about to go into the room to get five 
kopeks out of her purse, when she remembered 
that she had only a ten kopek piece, so, deciding 
to give bread instead, she turned to the cupboard. 
But then she blushed at the thought of having 
grudged him alms, and ordering Lucaria to cut a 
slice of bread, went to fetch the ten kopeks. 
11 That serves you right," she said to herself. 
" Now you must give twice as much." 

She gave both bread and money to the pilgrim 
with apologies, and in doing so she was not at all 
proud of her generosity. On the contrary, she 
was ashamed of having given so little. The man 
had such an imposing appearance. 

In spite of having tramped three hundred miles, 
begging in the name of Christ, and being nearly 
in rags ; in spite of having grown thin and weath- 
er-beaten, and having his hair cut, and wearing 
a peasant cap and boots; in spite, also, of his bow- 
ing with great humility, Sergius had the same im- 
pressive appearance which had attracted every one 
to him. Praskovia Mikhailovna did not recog- 
nise him. How could she, not having seen him 
for many years? 

" Excuse this humble gift, father. Wouldn't 
you like something to eat?" 

He took the bread and money, and Praskovia 



80 FATHER SERGIUS 

Mikhailovna was astonished that he did not go, 
but stood looking at her. 

" Pashinka, I have come to you. Won't you 
take me in? " 

His beautiful black eyes looked at her intently, 
imploringly, and shone, tears starting; and his 
lips quivered painfully under the grey moustache. 

Praskovia Mikhailovna pressed her hand to her 
shrivelled breast, opened her mouth, and stared at 
the pilgrim with dilated eyes. 

"It can't be possible! Steph — Sergius — 
Father Sergius ! " 

" Yes, it is I," said Sergius in a low voice. 
" But no longer Sergius or Father Sergius, but a 
great sinner, Stephen Kasatsky — a great sinner, 
a lost sinner. Take me in — help me." 

" No, it can't be possible ! Such great humil- 
ity! Come?" She stretched out her hand, but 
he did not take it. He only followed her. 

But where could she lead him? They had very 
little space. She had a tiny little room for her- 
self, hardly more than a closet, but even that 
she had given up to her daughter, and now 
Masha was sitting there rocking the baby to 
sleep. 

" Please, be seated here," she said to Sergius, 
pointing to a bench in the kitchen. He sat down 
at once, and took off, with an evidently accustomed 



FATHER SERGIUS 81 

action, the straps of his wallet first from one shoul- 
der and then from the other. 

" Heavens! What humility! What an hon- 
our, and now — " 

Sergius did not answer, but smiled meekly, lay- 
ing his wallet on one side. 

" Masha, do you know who this is?" And 
Praskovia Mikhailovna told her daughter in a 
whisper. They took the bed and the cradle out 
of the little room, and made it ready for Sergius. 

Praskovia Mikhailovna led him in. 

" Now have a rest. Excuse this humble room. 
I must go." 

"Where?" 

" I have lessons. I'm ashamed to say I teach 



music." 



Music! That is well. But just one thing, 
Praskovia Mikhailovna. I came to you with an 
object. Could I have a talk with you? " 

" I shall be happy. Will this evening do? " 
" It will. One thing more. Do not say who I 
am. I have only revealed myself to you. No 
one knows where I went, and no one need 
know." 

" Oh, but I told my daughter — " 
" Well, ask her not to tell any one." 
Sergius took off his boots and slept after a 
sleepless night and a forty-mile tramp. 



82 FATHER SERGIUS 

When Praskovia Mikhailovna returned Sergius 
was sitting in the little room waiting for her. 
He had not come out for dinner, but had some 
soup and gruel which Lucaria brought in to him. 

" Why did you return earlier than you said? " 
asked Father Sergius. " May I speak to you 
now? " 

" What have I done to deserve the happiness 
of having such a guest! I only missed one les- 
son. That can wait. I have dreamed for a long 
time of going to see you. I wrote to you. And 
now this good fortune ! " 

" Pashinka, please — listen to what I am going 
to tell you, as if it were a confession; as if it were 
something I should say to God in the hour of 
death. Pashinka, I am not a holy man. I am 
a vile and loathsome sinner. I have gone 
astray through pride, and I am the vilest of the 
vile." 

Pashinka stared at him. She believed what he 
said. Then, when she had quite taken it in, she 
touched his hand and smiled sadly, and said, — 

" Stevie, perhaps you exaggerate." 

" No, Pashinka, I am an adulterer, a murderer, 
a blasphemer, a cheat." 

" My God, what does he mean?" she mut- 
tered. 

" But I must go on living. I, who thought I 



FATHER SERGIUS 83 

knew everything, who taught others how to live, 
I know nothing. I ask you to teach me." 

" O Stevie ! You are laughing at me. Why 
do you always laugh at me? " 

" Very well; have it as you will that I am 
laughing at you. Still, tell me how you live, and 
how you have lived your life." 

"I? But I've lived a very bad life, the worst 
life possible. Now God is punishing me, and I 
deserve it. And I am so miserable now — so 
miserable! " 

11 And your marriage — how did you get on? " 

" It was all bad. I married because I fell in 
love from low motives. Father didn't want me 
to, but I wouldn't listen to anything. I just mar- 
ried. And then, instead of helping my husband, 
I made him wretched by my jealousy, which I 
couldn't overcome." 

" He drank, I heard." 

" Well, but I didn't give him any peace. I re- 
proached him. That's a disease. He couldn't 
stop it. I remember now how I took his drink 
away from him. We had such frightful scenes! " 
She looked at Kasatsky with pain in her beauti- 
ful eyes at the recollection. 

Kasatsky called to mind that he had been told 
that her husband beat Pashinka, and looking at 
her thin withered neck with veins standing out 



84 FATHER SERGIUS 

behind her ears, the thin coil of hair, half grey, 
half auburn, he saw it all just as it happened. 

" Then I was left alone with two children, and 
with no means." 

" But you had an estate ! " 

" Oh, that was sold when Vasily was alive. 
And the money was — spent. We had to live, 
and I didn't know how to work — like all the 
young ladies of that time. I was worse than the 
rest — quite helpless. So we spent everything we 
had. I taught the children. Masha had learnt 
something. Then Misha fell ill when he was in 
the fourth class in the school, and God took him. 
Masha fell in love with Vania, my son-in-law. 
He's a good man but very unfortunate. He's 
ill." 

" Mother," interrupted her daughter, " take 
Misha. I can't be everywhere." 

Praskovia Mikhailovna started, rose, and step- 
ping quickly in her worn shoes, went out of the 
room and came back with a boy of two in her 
arms. The child was throwing himself back- 
wards and grabbing at her shawl. 

"Where was I? Yes — he had a very good 
post here, and such a good chief, too. But poor 
Vania couldn't go on, and he had to give up his 
position." 

" What is the matter with him? " 



FATHER SERGIUS 85 

" Neurasthenia. It's such a horrid illness. 
We have been to the doctor, but he ought to go 
away, and we can't afford it. Still, I hope it will 
pass. He doesn't suffer much pain, but — " 

"Lucaria!" said a feeble and angry voice. 
11 She's always sent out when I need her. 
Mother !" 

" I'm coming," said Praskovia Mikhailovna, 
again interrupting her conversation. M You see, 
he hasn't had his dinner yet. He can't eat with 



us." 



She went out and arranged something, and 
came back, wiping her thin, dark hands. 

" Well, this is the way I live. I complain, and 
I'm not satisfied, but, thank God, all my grand- 
children are such nice healthy children, and life is 
quite bearable. But why am I talking about my- 
self? " 

" What do you live on? " 

" Why, I earn a little. How I used to hate 
music ! and now it's so useful to me ! " 

Her small hand lay on the chest of drawers that 
stood beside her where she was sitting, and she 
drummed exercises with her thin fingers. 

" How much are you paid for your lessons? " 

" Sometimes a rouble, sometimes fifty kopeks, 
and sometimes thirty. They are all so kind to 



me. 



86 FATHER SERGIUS 

"And do your pupils get on well?" asked 
Kasatsky, smiling faintly with his eyes. 

Praskovia Mikhailovna did not believe at first 
that he was asking ker seriously, and looked in- 
quiringly into his eyes. 

11 Some of them do," she said. " I have one 
very nice pupil — the butcher's daughter. Such 
a good, kind girl. If I were a clever woman I 
could surely use my father's influence and get a 
position for my son-in-law. But it is my fault 
they are so badly off. 1 brought them to it." 

14 Yes, yes," said Kasatsky, dropping his head. 
44 Well, Pashinka, and what about your attitude to 
the church? " 

44 Oh, don't speak of it! I'm so bad that way. 
I have neglected it so! When the children have 
to go, I fast and go to communion with them, but 
as for the rest of the time I often do not go for a 
month. I just send them." 

44 And why don't you go? " 

44 Well, to tell the truth — " she blushed — " I'm 
ashamed for Masha's sake and the children's to 
go in my old clothes. And I haven't anything 
else. Besides, I'm just lazy." 

44 And do you pray at home? " 

44 1 do, but it's just a mechanical sort of praying. 
I know it's wrong, but I have no real religious 
feeling. I only know I'm wicked — that's all." 



FATHER SERGIUS 87 

"Yes, yes. That's right, that's right!" said 
Kasatsky, as if in approval. 

"I'm coming — I'm coming!" she called, in 
answer to her son-in-law, and, tidying her hair, 
went to the other room. 

This time she was absent a long while. When 
she returned, Kasatsky was sitting in the same 
position, his elbow on his knee and his head down. 
But his wallet was ready strapped on his back. 

When she came in with a little tin lamp without 
a shade, he raised his beautiful, weary eyes, and 
sighed deeply. 

" I didn't tell them who you were," she began 
shyly. " I just said you were a pilgrim — a no- 
bleman — and that I used to know you. Won't 
you come into the dining-room and have tea? " 

" No." 

" Then I'll bring some in to you here." 

" No ; I don't want anything. God bless you, 
Pashinka. I am going now. If you have any 
pity for me, don't tell any one you have seen me. 
For the love of God, tell no one. I thank you. 
I would kneel down before you, but I know it 
would only make you feel awkward. Forgive me, 
for Christ's sake." 

" Give me your blessing." 
- " God bless you. Forgive me, for Christ's 
sake." 



88 FATHER SERGIUS 

He rose to go, but she restrained him and 
brought him some bread and butter, which he took 
and departed. 

It was dark, and he had hardly passed the 
second house when he was lost to sight, and she 
only knew he was there because the dog at the 
priest's house was barking. 

11 That was the meaning of my vision. Pa- 
shinka is what I should have been, and was not. I 
lived for man, on the pretext of living for God; 
and she lives for God, imagining she lives for 
man ! Yes ; one good deed — a cup of cold water 
given without expectation of reward — is worth 
far more than all the benefits I thought I was be- 
stowing on the world. But was there not, after 
all, one grain of sincere desire to serve God? " he 
asked himself. And the answer came : " Yes, 
there was ; but it was so soiled, so overgrown with 
desire for the world's praise. No; there is no 
God for the man who lives for the praise of the 
world. I must now seek Htm! 9 

He walked on, just as he had made his way 
to Pashinka, from village to village, meeting and 
parting with other pilgrims, and asking for bread 
and a night's rest in the name of Christ. Some- 
times an angry housekeeper would abuse him, 
sometimes a drunken peasant would revile him; 



FATHER SERGIUS 89 

but for the most part he was given food and 
drink, and often something to take with him. 
Many were favourably disposed towards him on 
account of his noble bearing. Some, on the other 
hand, seemed to enjoy the sight of a gentleman so 
reduced to poverty. But his gentleness van- 
quished all hearts. 

He often found a Bible in a house where he 
was staying. He would read it aloud, and the 
people always listened to him, touched by what 
he read them, and wondering, as if it were some- 
thing new, although so familiar. 

If he succeeded in helping people by his advice 
or by knowing how to read and write, or by set- 
tling a dispute, he did not afterwards wait to see 
their gratitude, for he went away directly. And 
little by little God began to reveal Himself within 
him. 

One day he was walking along the road with 
two women and a soldier. They were stopped 
by a party consisting of a lady and gentleman in 
a trap drawn by a trotter, and another gentleman 
and lady riding. The gentleman beside the lady 
in the trap was evidently a traveller — a French- 
man — while her husband was on horseback with 
his daughter. 

The party stopped to show the Frenchman the 
pilgrims, who, according to a superstition of the 



9 o FATHER SERGIUS 

Russian peasantry, show their superiority by 
tramping instead of working. They spoke French, 
thinking they would not be understood. 

" Demandez-leur," asked the Frenchman, " s'ils 
sont bien sures de ce que leur pelerinage est agrea- 
bleaDieu?" 

The old woman answered, — ■ 

" Just as God wills it. Our feet have arrived at 
the holy places, but we can't tell about our hearts." 

They asked the soldier. He answered that he 
was alone in the world, and belonged nowhere. 

They asked Kasatsky who he was. 

" A servant of God." 

" Qu'est-ce-qu'il ditf II ne repond pas? " 

" II dit qn'il est un serviteur de Dieu" 

" II doit etre un fils de pretre. II a de la race. 
l Avez-vous de la petite monnaie? " 

The Frenchman had some change, and gave 
each of them twenty kopeks. 

" Mais dites-leur que ce n } est pas pour les 
cierges que )e leur donne, mais pour qu'ils se rega- 
lent du the. Tea — tea," he said, with a smile. 
" Pour vous, mon vieux" And he patted Kasat- 
sky on the shoulder with his gloved hand. 

" Christ save you," said Kasatsky, and without 
putting on his hat, bent his bald head. 

Kasatsky rejoiced particularly in this incident, 
because he had shown contempt for the world's 



FATHER SERGIUS 91 

opinion, and had done something quite trifling 
and easy. He accepted twenty kopeks, and gave 
them afterwards to a blind beggar who was a 
friend of his. 

The less he cared for the opinion of the world 
the more he felt that God was with him. 

For eight months Kasatsky tramped in this 
fashion, until at last he was arrested in a provin- 
cial town in a night-shelter where he passed the 
night with other pilgrims. Having no passport to 
show, he was taken to the police-station. When 
he was asked for documents to prove his identity 
he said he had none; that he was a servant of 
God. He was numbered among the tramps and 
sent to Siberia. 

There he settled down on the estate of a rich 
peasant, where he still lives. He works in the 
vegetable garden, teaches the children to read and 
write, arid nurses the sick. 



THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 



THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 



I. 


ON RELIGION. 


2. 


ON WAR. 


3- 


ON STATE AND FATHERLAND. 


4- 


ON TAXES. 


5- 


ON 


JUDGING. 


6. 


ON 


KINDNESS. 


7- 


ON 


REMUNERATION OF LABOUR 


8. 


ON 


DRINK. 


9- 


ON 


CAPITAL PUNISHMENT. 


IO. 


ON 


PRISONS. 


n. 


ON WEALTH. 


12. 


ON THOSE WHO OFFEND YOU. 


13- 


ON THE PRESS. 


14. 


ON 


REPENTANCE. 


i5- 


ON ART. 


16. 


ON 


SCIENCE. 


i7- 


ON 


GOING TO LAW. 


18. 


ON THE CRIMINAL COURT. 


19. 


ON 


PROPERTY. 


20. 


ON 


CHILDREN. 


21. 


ON EDUCATION. 



ON RELIGION. 

Boy. 

Why is Nurse so nicely dressed to-day, and why 
did she make me wear that new shirt? 

Mother. 

Because this is a holiday, and we are going to 
church. 

Boy. 
What holiday? 

Mother. 
Ascension day. 

Boy. 
What does Ascension mean? 

Mother. 

It means that Jesus Christ has ascended to 
heaven. 

Boy. 

What does that mean: ascended? 

Mother. 

It means that He flew up to heaven. 

97 



9 8 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

Boy. 

How did he fly? With his wings? 

Mother. 
Without any wings whatever. He simply flew 
up because He is God, and God can do anything. 

Boy. 

But where did he fly to? Father told me there 
was nothing in heaven at all, and we only think we 
see something; that there's nothing but stars up 
there, and behind them more stars still, and that 
there is no end to it. Then where did He fly to? 

Mother. 

(smiling.) You are unable to understand every- 
thing. You must believe. 

Boy. 

What must I believe? 

Mother. 
What you are told by grown-up people. 

Boy. 

But when I said to you that somebody was 
going to die because some salt had been spilt, you 
said I was not to believe in nonsense. 



ON RELIGION 99 

Mother. 
Of course you are not to believe in nonsense. 

Boy. 
But how am I to know what is nonsense and 
what is not? 

Mother. 

You must believe what the true faith says, and 
not in nonsense. 

Boy. 
Which is the true faith then? 

Mother. 
Our faith is the true one. {To herself.) I 
am afraid I am talking nonsense. {Aloud.) Go 
and tell father we are ready for church, and get 
your coat. 

Boy. 
And shall we have chocolate after church? 



ON WAR 

Karlchen Schmidt, nine years; Petia Orlov, 
ten years; and Masha Orlov, eight years. 

Karlchen. 

. . . Because we Prussians will not allow Russia 
to rob us of our land. 

Petia. 

But we say this land belongs to us; we con- 
quered it first. 

Masha. 
To whom? Is it ours? 

Petia. 

You are a child, and you don't understand. 
" To us " means to our state. 

Karlchen. 

It is this way; some belong to one state and 
some to another. 

Masha. 
What do I belong to? 

loo 



ON WAR 101 

Petia. 
You belong to Russia, like the rest of us, 

Masha. 
And if I don't want to? 

Petia. 
It doesn't matter whether you want to or not. 
You are Russian all the same. Every nation 
has its Tsar, its King. 

Karlchen. 
{(interrupting.) And a parliament. 

Petia. 
Each state has its army, each state raises taxes. 

Masha. 
But why must each state stand by itself? 

Petia. 

What a silly question ! Because each state is a 
separate one. 

Masha. 
But why must it exist apart? 

Petia. 

Can't you understand? Because everybody 
loves his own country. 



102 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
Masha. 
I don't understand why they must be separate 
from the rest. Wouldn't it be better if they all 
kept together? 

Petia. 
To keep together is all right when you play 
games. But this is no game: it is a very serious 
matter. 

Masha. 

I don't understand. 

Karlchen. 

You will when you grow up. 

Masha. 

Then I don't want to grow up. 

Petia. 

Such a tiny girl, and obstinate already, just like 
all of them. 



ON STATE AND FATHERLAND 

Gavrila, a soldier in the reserve, a servant. 
Misha, his master's young son. 

Gavrila. 

Good-bye, Mishenka, my dear little master. 
Who knows whether* God will permit me to see 
you again? 

Misha. 
Are you really leaving? 

Gavrila. 

I have to. There is war again. And I am in 
the reserve. 

Misha. 

A war with whom? Who's fighting, and who 
are they fighting against? 

Gavrila. 

God knows. It's very difficult to understand 
all that. I have read about it in the papers, but I 

103 



io 4 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

can't make it out. They say that some one in 
Austria has a grudge against us because of some 
favour he did to what's-their-names. . . . 

Misha. 

But what are you fighting for? 

Gavrila. 

I am fighting for the Tsar, of course; for my 
country and the Orthodox Faith. 

Misha. 
But you don't wish to go to the war, do you? 

Gavrila. 
Certainly not. To leave my wife and my chil- 
dren. . . . Do you suppose I would leave this 
happy life of my own free will? 

Misha. 

Then why do you go? Tell them you don't 
want to, and stop here. What can they do to 
you? 

Gavrila. 

( laughing. ) What can they do ? They will take 
me by force. 

Misha. 

Who can take you by force? 



ON STATE AND FATHERLAND 105 
Gavrila. 
Men who have to obey, and who are exactly in 
my position. 

Misha. 
Why will they take you by force if they are in 
the same position? 

' Gavrila. 
Because of the authorities. They will be or- 
dered to take me, and they will have to do it. 

Misha. 
But suppose they don't want to? 

Gavrila. 
They have to obey. 

Misha. 

But why? 

Gavrila. 
[Why? Because of the law. 

Misha. 
What law! 

Gavrila. 
You are a funny boy. It's a pleasure to chat 
with you. But now I had better go and get the 
samovar ready. It will be for the last time. 



ON TAXES 

The Bailiff and Grushka. 
Bailiff. 

(entering a poor cottage. Nobody is in except 
Grushka, a little girl of seven. He looks around 
him.) Nobody at home? 

Grushka. 
Mother has gone to bring home the cow, and 
Fedka is at work in the master's yard. 

Bailiff. 
Well, tell your mother the bailiff called. Tell 
her I am giving her notice for the third time, and 
that she must pay her taxes before Sunday without 
fail, or else I will take her cow. 

Grushka. 

The cow? Are you a thief? We will not let 
you take our cow. 

Bailiff. 

(smiling.) What a smart girl, I say! What is 
your name? 

106 



ON TAXES 107 

Grushka. 
Grushka. 

Bailiff. 
You are a good girl, Grushka. Now listen. 
Tell your mother that, although I am not a thief, 
I will take her cow. 

Grushka. 
Why will you take our cow if you are not a 
thief? 

Bailiff. 
Because what is due must be paid. I shall 
take the cow for the taxes that are not paid. 

Grushka. 
What's that: taxes? 

Bailiff. 
What a nuisance of a girl! What are taxes? 
They are money paid by the people by the order of 
the Tsar. 

Grushka. 
To whom? 

Bailiff. 

The Tsar will look after that when the money 
comes in. 

Grushka. 
He's not poor, is he? We are the poor people. 



108 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

The Tsar is rich. Why does he want us to give 
him money? 

Bailiff. 

He does not take it for himself. He spends it 
on us, fools that we are. It all goes to supply our 
needs — to pay the authorities, the army, the 
schools. It is for our own good that we pay taxes. 

Grushka. 
How does it benefit us if our cow is taken away? 
There's no good in that. 

Bailiff. 
You will understand that when you are grown- 
up. Now, mind you give your mother my mes- 
sage. 

Grushka. 
I will not repeat all your nonsense to her. [You 
can do whatever you and the Tsar want. 'And 
we shall mind our own business. 

Bailiff. 

What a devil of a girl she will be when she 
grows up ! 



ON JUDGING 

MlTIA, a boy of ten; Iliusha, a Boy of nine; 
Sonia, a girl of six. 

Mitia. 
I told Peter Semenovich we could get used to 
wearing no clothes at all. And he said, " That is 
impossible." Then I told him Michael Ivano- 
vich said that just as we have managed to get our 
bare faces used to the cold, we could do the same 
with our whole body. Peter Semenovich said, 
" Your Michael Ivanovich is a fool." \He 
laughs.) And Michael Ivanovich said to me 
only yesterday, " Peter Semenovich is talking a 
lot of nonsense. But, of course," he added, 
" there's no law for fools." (He laughs.)^ 

Iliusha. 
If I were you I would tell Peter Semenovich, 
" You abuse Michael Ivanovich, and he does the 
same to you." 

MlTIA. 
No; but truly, I wish I knew which of them is 
the fool. 

109 



no THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

SONIA. 

They both are. Whoever calls another person 
a fool is a fool himself. 

Iliusha. 

And you have called them both fools. [Then 
you are one also. 

Mitia. 
Well, I hate people saying things about each 
other behind their backs and never openly to their 
faces. When I am grown-up I shan't be like that. 
I shall always say what I think. 
Iliusha. 
So shall I. 

Sonia. 
And I shall do just whatever I like. 

Mitia. 
What do you mean? 

Sonia. 
Why, I shall say what I think =-= if I choose. 
And if I don't choose, I won't. 

Iliusha. 
iYou're a big fool, that is what you are. 

Sonia. 
And you have just said you will never call 
people names. But of course. . . . 



ON KINDNESS 

The children, Masha and MiSHA, are building a 
tent for their dolls in front of the house. 

Misha. 

(in an angry tone to Masha.) No, not this. 
Bring that stick there. What a blockhead you 
are! 

An Old Woman. 
{coming out of the house, crossing herself, and 
muttering.) Jesus Christ reward her! What 
an angel ! She has pity on every one. 

{The Children cease to play, and 
look at the old woman.) 

Misha. 
Who is as good as all that? 

Old Woman. 

Your mother. She has God in her soul. She 
pities us, the poor. She has given me a skirt — 
and some tea, and money too. The Queen of 

in 



ii2 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

Heaven save her! Not like that godless man. 
" Such a lot of you," he says, " tramping about 
here." And such savage dogs he hasl 

Misha. 
Who is that? 

Old Woman. 

The man opposite. The wine merchant. A 
very unkind gentleman, I can tell you. But never 
mind. I am so thankful to the dear lady. She 
has given me presents, has relieved me, miserable 
creature that I am. How could we exist if it were 
not for such kind people? (She weeps.) 

Masha. 
(to Misha.) How good she is! 

Old Woman. 

When you are grown up, children, be as kind as 
she is to the poor. God will reward you. 

(Exit.) 

Misha. 
How wretched she is ! 

Masha. 
I am so glad mother has given her something. 

Misha. 
Why shouldn't one give, if one has got plenty 



ON KINDNESS 113 

of everything oneself? We are not poor, and 
she is. 

Masha. 
You remember, John the Baptist said: Who- 
ever has two coats, let him give away one. 

Misha. 

Oh, when I am grown up I will give away 
everything I have. 

Masha. 
Not everything, I should think. 

Misha. 
Why not? 

Masha. 
But what would you have left for yourself? 

Misha. 

I don't care. We must always be kind. Then 
the whole world will be happy. 

'(Misha stopped playing with his sis- 
ter, went to the nursery , tore a page out 
of a copy-book, wrote a line on it, and 
put it in his pocket. On that page was 
written: We Must Be Kind.) 



ON REMUNERATION OF LABOUR 

The Father; Katia, a girl of nine; Fedia, a boy 
of eight. 

Katia. 
Father, our sledge is broken. Couldn't you 
mend it for us? 

Father. 
No, darling, I can not. I don't know how to 
do it. Give it to Prohor ; he will put it right for 
you. 

Katia. 

We have asked him to already. He says he is 
busy. He is making a gate. 

Father. 

Well, then, you must just wait a little with your 
sledge. 

Fedia. 

And you, father, can't you mend it for us, 
really? 

ii4 



REMUNERATION OF LABOUR 115 
Father. 
(smiling.) Really, my boy. 

Fedia. 
Can't you do any work at all? 

Father. 
(laughing.) Oh yes, there are some kinds of 
work I can do. But not the kind that Prohor 
does. 

Fedia. 

Can you make samovars like Vania? 

Father. 

No. 

Fedia. 
Or harness horses? 

Father. 
Not that either. 

Fedia. 
I wonder why are we all unable to do any work, 
and they do it all for us. Ought it to be like 
that? 

Father. 
Everybody has to do the work he is fit for. 
Learn, like a good boy, and you will know what 
work everybody has to do. 



n6 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

Fedia. 

Are we not to learn how to prepare food and 
to harness horses? 

Father. 
There are things more necessary than that. 

Fedia. 

I know: to be kind, not to get cross, not to 
abuse people. But isn't it possible to do the cook- 
ing and harness horses, and be kind just the same? 
Isn't that possible ? 

Father. 
Undoubtedly. Just wait till you are grown up. 
Then you will understand. 

Fedia. 
And what if I don't grow up? 

Father. 
Don't talk nonsense ! 

Katia. 
Then we may ask Prohor to mend the sledge ? 

Father. 
Yes, do. Go to Prohor and tell him I wish 
him to do it. 



ON DRINK 

f An evening in the 'autumn. 

r (MAKARKA, a boy of twelve, and 
Marfutka, a girl of eight, are coming 
'out of the house into the street. Mar- 
FUTKA is crying. Pavlushka, a boy 
of ten, stands before the house next 
door.) 

Pavlushka. 
Where the devil are you going to, both of you? 
Have you any night work? 

Makarka. 
Crazy drunk again. 

Pavlushka. 
Who? Uncle Prohor? 

Makarka. 
Of course. 

Marfutka. 

He is beating mother — * 
117 



n8 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
Makarka. 
I won't go inside to-night. He would hit me 
also. (Sitting down on the doorstep.) I will 
stay here the whole night. I will. 

(Marfutka weeps.) 

Pavlushka. 
Stop crying. Never mind. It can r t be helped. 
Stop crying, I say. 

Marfutka. 
If I was the Tsar, I would have the people who 
give him any drink just beaten to death. I would 
not allow anybody to sell brandy. 

Pavlushka. 
Wouldn't you ? But it is the Tsar himself who 
sells it. He doesn't let anybody else sell it, for 
fear it would lessen his own profits. 

Marfutka. 
It is a lie ! 

Pavlushka. 
Humph! A lie! You just ask anybody you 
like. Why have they put Akulina in prison? 
Because they did not want her to sell brandy and 
lessen their profits. 

Makarka. 
Is that really so ! I heard she had done some- 
thing against the law. 



ON DRINK 119 

Pavlushka. 
What she did against the law was selling 
brandy. 

Marfutka. 
I would not allow her to sell it either. It is 
just that brandy that does all the mischief. Some- 
times he is very nice, and then at other times he 
hits everybody. 

Makarka. 
(to Pavlushka.) You say very strange things. 
I will ask the schoolmaster to-morrow. He must 
know. 

Pavlushka. 
Do ask him. 

(The next morning Prohor, 
Makarka's father, after a night's 
sleep, goes to refresh himself with a 
drink; Makarka's mother, with a 
swollen eye, is kneading bread. 
Makarka has gone to school. The 
Schoolmaster is sitting at the door of 
the village school, watching the children 
coming in.) 

Makarka. 
(coming up to the schoolmaster.^ Tell me, 
please, Eugene Semenovich, is it true, what a fel- 
low was telling me, that the Tsar makes a busi- 



120 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

ness of selling brandy, and that is why Akulina 
has been sent to prison? 

Schoolmaster. 
That is a very silly question, and whoever told 
you that is a fool. The Tsar sells nothing what- 
soever. A tsar never does. As for Akulina, she 
was put in prison because she was selling brandy 
without a license, and was thereby lessening the 
revenues of the Crown. 

Makarka. 
How lessening? 

Schoolmaster. 
Because there is a duty on spirits. A barrel 
costs so much in the factory, and is sold to the 
public for so much more. This surplus constitutes 
the income of the state. The largest revenue 
comes from it, and amounts to many millions. 

Makarka. 

Then the more brandy people drink the greater 
the income? 

Schoolmaster. 
Certainly. If it were not for that income there 
would be nothing to keep the army with, or 
schools, or all the rest of the things you need. 



ON DRINK 121 

Makarka. 
But if all those things are necessary, why not 
take the money directly for the necessary things? 
Why get it by means of brandy? 

Schoolmaster. 
Why? Because that is the law. But the chil- 
dren are all in now. Take your seats. 



DN CAPITAL PUNISHMENT 

Peter Petrovich, a professor. Maria Ivan- 
OVNA, his wife {sewing.) Fedia, their son, a boy 
of nine {listening to his father's conversation.) 
Ivan Vasilievich, counsel for the prosecution in 
the court martial. 

Ivan Vasilievich. 
The experience of history cannot be gainsaid. 
We have not only seen in France after the revolu- 
tion, and at other historical moments, but in our 
own country as well, that doing away with — I 
mean the removal of perverted and dangerous 
members of society has in fact the desired result. 

Peter Petrovich. 

No, we cannot know what the consequences of 
this are in reality. The proclamation of a state 
of siege is therefore not justified. 

Ivan Vasilievich. 
But neither have we the right to presume that 
the consequences of a state of siege must be bad, 

122 



ON CAPITAL PUNISHMENT 123 

or, if it proves to be so, that such consequences 
are brought about by the employment of a state of 
siege. This is one point. The other is that fear 
cannot fail to influence those who have lost every 
human sensibility and are like beasts. What ex- 
cept fear could have any effect on men like that 
one who calmly stabbed an old woman and three 
children in order to steal three hundred roubles? 

Peter Petrovich. 

But I am not against capital punishment in 
principle ; I am only opposed to the special courts 
martial which are so often formed. If these 
frequent executions did nothing but inspire fear, 
it would be different. But in addition they per- 
vert the mind, and killing becomes a habit of 
thought. 

Ivan Vasilievich. 
There again we don't know anything about the 
remote consequences, but we do know, on the con- 
trary, how beneficial. . . . 

Peter Petrovich. 
Beneficial? 

Ivan Vasilievich. 

Yes, how beneficial the immediate results are, 
and we have no right to deny it. How could 



124 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

society similarly fail to exact the penalty from 
Such a wretch as . . . 

Peter Petrovich. 
You mean society must take its revenge?] 

Ivan Vasilievich. 
No, the object is not revenge. On the con- 
trary, it must substitute for personal revenge the 
penalty imposed for the good of the community. 

Peter Petrovich. 
But in that case it must be subject to regulations 
settled by the law once for ever, and not as a 
special order of things. 

Ivan Vasilievich. 

The penalty imposed by the community is a 
substitute for casual, exaggerated revenge, in 
many cases ungrounded and erroneous, which a 
private individual might take. 

Peter Petrovich. 

(passionately.) Do you really mean to say the 
penalty imposed by society is never casual, is 
always well founded, is never erroneous? I can- 
not admit that. None of your arguments could 
ever convince me or anyone else that this is true 



ON CAPITAL PUNISHMENT 125 

of a state of siege, under which thousands have 
been executed . . . and under which execu- 
tions are still going on — that all this is both just 
and legal, and beneficial into the bargain ! (Rises 
and walks up and down in great agitation.) 

Fedia. 

(to his mother.) Mother, what is father talking 
about? 

Maria Ivanovna. 

Father thinks it wrong that so many people are 
put to death. 

Fedia. 
Do you mean really put to death? 

Maria Ivanovna. 
Yes. He thinks it ought not to be done so 
frequently. 

Fedia. 
(coming up to his father.) Father, isn't it writ- 
ten in the Ten Commandments : " Thou shalt not 
kill " ? Doesn't that mean you are not to kill at 
all? 

Peter Petrovich. 
[(smiling.) That does not refer to what we are 
talking about. It only means that men are not 
to kill other men. 



126 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

Fedia. 
But when they execute they kill, don't they? 

Peter Petrovich. 
Certainly. But the thing is to know why and 
when it is permissible. 

Fedia. 
When is it ? 

Peter Petrovich. 
Why, think of a war, or of a great villain who 
has committed many murders. How could one 
leave him unpunished? 

Fedia. 

But isn't it written in the Gospel that we must 
love and forgive everybody? 

Peter Petrovich. 

If we could do that it would be splendid. But 
that cannot be. 

Fedia. 
Why? 

Peter Petrovich. 
(to Ivan Vasilievich, who listens to Fedia with 
a smile.) As I said, dear Ivan Vasilievich, I can- 
not and will not admit the benefit of a state of 
siege and courts-martial. 



ON PRISONS 

SemkA, a boy of thirteen ; AksutkA, a girl of 
ten; Palashka, a girl of nine; Vanka, a boy of 
eight. They are sitting at the well, with baskets 
of mushrooms which they have gathered. 

AksutkA. 
Aunt Matrena was crying so desperately. And 
the children too would not leave off howling, all 
at the same time. 

Vanka. 
Why were they howling? 

Palashka. 
What about? Why, their father has been 
taken off to prison. Who should cry but the 
family? 

Vanka. 

Why is he in prison? 

AksutkA. 

I don't know. They came and told him to get 

127 



128 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

his things ready and led him away. We saw it 
all from our cottage. 

Semka. 
Serves him right for being a horse-stealer. He 
stole a horse from Demkin's place and one from 
Hramov's. He and his gang also got hold of our 
gelding. Who could love him for that? 

Aksutka. 

That is all right, but I am sorry for the poor 
brats. There are four of them. And so poor — i 
no bread in the house. To-day they had to come 
to us. 

Semka. 
Serves the thief right. 

Mitka. 
But he's the only one that is the thief. Why 
must his children become beggars? 

Semka. 
Why did he steal? 

Mitka. 
The kid's didn't steal — it is just he. 

Semka. 
Kids indeed! Why did he do wrong? That 
doesn't alter the case, that he has got children. 
Does that give him the right to be a thief? 



ON PRISONS 129 

Vanka. 
What will they do to him in prison? 

Aksutka. 
He will just sit there. That's all. 

Vanka. 
And will they give him food? 

Semka. 
That's just the reason why they're not afraid, 
those damned horse-thieves 1 He doesn't mind 
going to prison. They provide him with every- 
thing and he has nothing to do but sit idle the 
whole day long. If I were the Tsar, I would 
know how to manage those horse-thieves. . . . 
I would teach them a lesson that would make 
them give up the habit of stealing. Now he has 
nothing to worry him. He sits in the company 
of fellows like himself, and they teach each other 
how to steal. Grandfather said Petrusha was 
quite a good boy when he went to prison for the 
first time, but he came out a desperate villain. 
Since then he's taken to — • 

Vanka. 
Then why do they put people in prison? 

Semka. 
Just ask them. 



130 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

Aksutka. 

He will have all his food given to him — 

Semka. 

(agreeing.) So he will get more accustomed to 
finding the food ready for him ! 

Aksutka. 

While the kiddies and their mother have to die 
of starvation. They are our neighbours; we can't 
help pitying them. When they come asking for 
bread, we can't refuse. How could we? 

Vanka. 
Then why are those people put in prison? 

Semka. 
What else could be done with them? 

Vanka. 
What? What could be done? One must 
somehow manage that. . . . 

Semka. 

Yes, somehow! But you don't know how. 
There have been people with more brains than 
you've got who have thought about that, and they 
couldn't invent anything. 

PalashkA. 
I think if I had been a queen . . . 



ON PRISONS 131 

Aksutka. 
(laughing.) Well, what would you have done, 
my queen? 

Palashka. 

I would have things so that nobody would steal 
and the children would not cry. 

Aksutka. 
How would you do that ? 

Palashka. 
I would just see that everybody was given what 
he needed, that nobody was wronged by anybody 
else, and that they were all happy. 

Semka. 

Three cheers for the queen ! But how would 
you manage that? 

Palashka. 
I would just do it, you would see. 

Mitka. 
Let us all go to the birch woods. [The girls 
have been gathering a lot there lately. 

Semka. 
All right. Come along, you fellows. And 
you, queen, mind you don't drop your mushrooms. 
You are so sharp. 

(They get up and go away.) 



ON WEALTH 

The Landlord, his Wife, their Daughter 
and their son Vasia, six years old, are having tea 
on the veranda. The grown-up children are 
playing tennis. A Young Beggar comes up to 
the veranda. 

Landlord. 
(to the beggar.) What do you want? 

Beggar. 

(bowing to him.) I dare say you know. Have 
pity on a man out of work. I am tramping, with 
nothing to eat, and no clothes to wear. I have 
been to Moscow, and am trying to get home. 
Help a poor man. 

Landlord. 
Why are you poor? 

Beggar. 
Why? Because I haven't got anything. 

Landlord. 
You would not be poor if you worked. 

132 



ON WEALTH 133 

Beggar. 
I would be glad to, but I can't get a job. 
Everything is shut down now. 

Landlord. 
How is it other people find work and you can- 
not? 

Beggar. 
Believe me, upon my soul, I would be only too 
glad to work. But I can't find a job. Have pity 
on me, sir. I have not eaten for two days, and 
I've been tramping all the time. 

Landlord. 

(to his wife in French.) Have you any change? 
I have only notes. 

His Wife, 
(to Vasia.) Be a good boy, go and fetch my 
purse ; it is in my bag on the little table beside my 
bed. 

r (VASlA 'does not hear what his mother 
says; he has his eyes fixed on the beggar.) 

The Wife 
Don't you hear, Vasia? '{Pulling him by the 
sleeve.) Vasia! 



i 3 4 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

Vasia. 
What, mother? 

(The Wife repeats her directions.) 
Vasia. 
{jumping up.) I am off. {Goes, looking back 
at the beggar.) 

Landlord. 
{to the beggar.) Wait a moment. (BEGGAR 
steps aside.) 

Landlord. 
{to his wife, in French.) Is it not dreadful? So 
many are out of work now. It is all laziness. 
Yet, it is horrid if he really is hungry. 
His Wife. 
I hear it is just the same abroad. I have read 
that in New York there are 100,000 unemployed. 
Another cup of tea? 

Landlord. 
Yes, but much weaker. {He lights a cigarette; 
they stop talking.) 

(Beggar looks at them, shakes his 
head and coughs, evidently to attract 
their attention.) 

(Vasia comes running with the 
purse looks round for the beggar and, 
passing the purse to his mother, looks 
again fixedly at the beggar.) 



ON WEALTH 135 

Landlord. 
(taking a ten kopek piece out of the purse.) 
There, What's-your-name, take that. 

Beggar. 
{bows, pulls off his cap and takes the money.) 
Thank you, thank you for that much. Many 
thanks for having pity on a poor man. 

Landlord. 

I pity you chiefly for being out of work. Work 
would save you from poverty. He who works 
will never be poor. 

Beggar. 

(having received the money, puts on his cap and 
turns away.) They say truly that work does not 
make a rich man but a humpback. (Exit.) 

Vasia. 
What did he say! 

Landlord. 
He repeated that stupid peasant's proverb, that 
work does not make a rich man but a humpback. 

Vasia. 
What does that mean? 



136 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
Landlord. 
It is supposed to mean that work makes a man's 
back crooked, without ever making him rich. 

Vasia. 
But that is not true, is it? 

Father. 
Of course not. Those who tramp about like 
that man there and have no desire to work, are 
always poor. It's only those who work, who get 
rich. 

Vasia. 
Why are we rich, then, when we don't work? 

Mother. 
(laughing.) How do you know father doesn't 
work? 

Vasia. 
I don't know, but since we are very rich, father 
ought to be working very hard. Is he, I wonder? 

Father. 
There is work and work. My worK is perhaps 
work that everybody could not do. 

Vasia. 
What is your work? 



ON WEALTH 137 

Father. 
My work is to provide for your food, your 
clothes, and your education. 

Vasia. 

But hasn't he to provide all that also? Then 
why is he so miserable when we are so — • 

Father. 
(laughing.) What a self-made socialist, I say! 
Mother. 
Yes, people say: " A fool can ask more ques- 
tions than a thousand wise men can answer." In- 
stead of " fool," we ought to say " every child." 



ON THOSE WHO OFFEND YOU 

MashA, a girl of ten; VANIA, a boy of eight. 

Masha. 
What I wish is that mother would come home 
at once and take us shopping, and then to call on 
Nastia. What would you like to happen now? 

Vania. 
I? I wish something would happen like it did 
yesterday. 

Masha. 
What happened yesterday? You mean when 
Grisha hit you and you both began to cry? There 
wasn't much good in that. 

Vania. 
That's just what was beautiful. Nothing could 
have been more so. That's what I want to hap- 
pen again. 

Masha. 
I don't understand. 

138 



ON THOSE WHO OFFEND JOU 139 

Vania. 

Well, I will explain what I want. Do you 
remember last Sunday, Uncle P.-= you know how 
I love him. . . • 

Masha. 

Who wouldn't. Mother says he is a saint ; and 
it's true. 

Vania. 

Well, you remember he told us a story last 
Sunday about a man whom people used to insult. 
The more any one insulted him the more he loved 
the offender. They abused him, and he praised 
them. They hit him and he helped them. Uncle 
said that anybody who acts so feels very happy. 
I liked what he said, and I wanted to be like that 
man. So, when Grisha hit me yesterday, I re- 
membered my wish and kissed Grisha. He burst 
out crying. I felt very happy. But with nurse 
yesterday it was different; she began scolding me, 
and I quite forgot how I ought to have behaved, 
and I answered her very rudely. What I wish 
now is to have the same experience over again 
that I had with Grisha. 

Masha. 
Then you would like somebody fo strike you? 



140 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

Vania. 
I would like it awfully. I would immediately 
do what I did to Grisha, and I would be so glad. 

Masha. 

How stupid ! Just like the fool you've always 
been. 

Vania. 

I don't mind being a fool. I only know now 
what to do, so as to feel happy all the time. 
Masha. 

A regular fool ! Do you really feel happy, do- 
ing so? 

Vania. 
Just awfully happy ! 



ON THE PRESS 

(The schoolroom at home. 

(Volodia, a schoolboy of fourteen, 
is reading; Sonia, a girl of fifteen, is 
writing. The Yard-Porter enters, 
carrying a heavy load on his back; 
MlSHA, a boy of eight, following him.) 

Porter. 
Where am I to put that bundle, sir? My 
shoulders are bent down with the weight of it. 

Volodia. 
Where were you told to put it? 

Porter. 
Vasily Timofeevich told me to carry it to the 
schoolroom and leave it for him. 

Volodia. 
Then put it in the corner. 

'(Porter unloads the^ bundle and 
sighs heavily.) 
141 



1 42 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

SONIA. 
What is it? 

VOLODIA. 
11 Truth " — a paper. 

MlSHA. 

u Truth " ? What do you mean? 

Sonia. 
Why have you so many? 

VOLODIA. 

It is a collection of the whole year's issues. 

(Continues reading.) 

Misha. 
Has all this been written? 
Porter. 
The fellows who wrote it weren't very lazy, 
I'll bet. 

VOLODIA. 

(laughs.) What did you say? 
Porter. 
I said what I meant. It wasn't a lazy lot that 
wrote all that. Well, I'm going. Will you 
kindly say I have brought the bundle. (Exit.) 

Sonia. 
(to Volodia.) What does father want all those 
papers for? 



ON THE PRESS 143 

VOLODIA. 

He wants to collect Bolchakov's articles from 
them. 

Sonia. 

And Uncle Michael Ivanovich says reading 
Bolchakov makes him ill. 

VOLODIA. 

Just like Uncle Michael Ivanovich. He only 
reads " Truth for All." 

Misha. 
And is uncle's " Truth " as big as this? 

Sonia. 
Bigger. But this is only for one year, and the 
papers have been published twenty years or more. 

Misha. 
That makes twenty such bundles and another 
twenty more. 

Sonia. 
(wishing to mystify Misha.) That's nothing. 
These are only two papers, and besides there are 
at least thirty more. 

Volodia. 
(without raising his head.) Thirty, you say! 
There are five hundred and thirty in Russia alone. 
And with those published abroad there are thou- 
sands altogether. 



144 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

MlSHA. 

They couldn't all be put into this room. 

Volodia. 

Not even in this whole street. But please 

don't disturb me in my work. To-morrow teacher 

is sure to call upon me, and you don't give me a 

chance of learning my lessons with your silly talk. 

{Resumes his reading.) 

Misha. 
I don't think there's any use writing so much. 

Sonia. 
Why not? 

Misha. 
Because if what they write is true, then why say 
the same thing over and over again? If it isn't, 
then why say what is not true ? 

Sonia. 
An excellent judgment! 

Misha. 
Why do they write such an awful lot? 

Volodia. 

{without taking his eyes of his book.) Because 
if it wasn't for the freedom of the press, how 
would people know what the truth is? 



ON THE PRESS 145 

MlSHA. 

Father says the " Truth " contains the truth, 
and Uncle Michael Ivanovich says " Truth " 
makes him ill. Then how do they know where 
the truth really is >. — in " Truth " or in " Truth for 
AH"? 

SONIA. 
I think you are right. There are really too 
many papers and magazines and books. 
Volodia. 

Just like a woman : perfectly senseless in every 
conclusion ! 

SONIA. 

I only mean that when there is so much written 
it is impossible to know anything really. 

Volodia. 
But everybody has brains given him to find out 
where the truth is. 

MlSHA. 

Then if everybody has got brains he can reason 
things out for himself. 

Volodia. 
So that's how you reason with your large supply 
of brains! Please go somewhere else and leave 
me alone to work. 



ON REPENTANCE 



VoliA, a boy of eight, stands in the passage 
with an empty plate and cries. Fedia, a boy of 
ten, comes running into the passage. 

Fedia. 
Mother sent me to see where you were; but 
what are you crying for? Have you brought 
nurse . . . {Sees the empty plate } and whistles.) 
Where is the cake? 

Volia. 
I — I — I wanted it, I — (and then suddenly) 

— Boo-hoo-hoo ! All of a sudden I ate it up — 
without meaning to. 

Fedia. 
Instead of taking it to nurse, you have eaten 
it yourself on the way ! Well I never ! Mother 
thought you wanted nurse to have the cake. 

Volia. 
I did (and then suddenly, without meaning to). 

— Boo-hoo-hoo ! 

146 



ON REPENTANCE 147 

Fedia. 
You just tasted it, and then you ate the whole 
of it. Well, I never! {Laughs.) 

Volia. 
It is all very well for you to laugh, but how am 
I going to tell. . . . Now I can't go to nurse — 
or to mother either. 

Fedia. 

A nice mess you have made of it, I must say. 
Ha, ha! So you have eaten the whole cake? It 
is no use crying. Just try to think of some way 
of getting out of it. 

Volia. 
I can't see how I can. What shall I do? 

Fedia. 

Fancy that ! ( Trying to restrain himself from 
laughing. A pause.) 

Volia. 
What am I to do now? I am lost. [{Howls.) 

Fedia. 
Don't you care. Stop that howling. Simply 
go to mother arid tell her you have eaten the cake 
yourself. 

Volia. 
That is worse. 



148 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

Fedia. 
Then go and confess to nurse. 

Volia. 
How can I ? 

Fedia. 
Listen; you wait here. I will find nurse and 
tell her. She won't mind. 

Volia. 
No, don't. I cannot let her know about it. 

Fedia. 
Nonsense. You did it by mistake; it can't be 
helped. I will tell her in a minute. (Runs 
away.) 

Volia. 
Fedia, Fedia, wait! He is gone — I just 
tasted it, and then I don't remember how I did it. 
What am I to do now! (Sobbing.) 

Fedia. 
(comes running back.) Stop your bawling, I say. 
I told you nurse would forgive you. She only 
said, "Oh, the darling!" 

Volia. 
She is not cross with me? 



ON REPENTANCE 149 

Fedia. 
Not a bit. She said, " I don't care for the 
cake; I would have given it to him anyhow. 55 

Volia. 
But I didn't mean to eat it. (Cries again.) 

Fedia. 
Why are you crying again? We won't tell 
mother. Nurse has quite forgiven you. 

Volia. 
Nurse has forgiven me. I Know she is kind 
and good. But me, I am a wicked boy, and that's 
what makes me cry. 



ON ART 

Footman; Housekeeper; Natasha (a little 

girl.) 

Footman. 

'(with a tray.) Almond milk for the tea, and 
rum — 

Housekeeper. 
(knitting a stocking and counting the stitches.) 
Twenty-three, twenty- four — 

Footman. 
I say, Avdotia Vasilievna, can't you hear? 

Housekeeper. 
I hear, I hear. I'll give it to you presently. 
I can't tear myself to pieces to do all kinds of 
work at the same moment. (To Natasha.) 
Yes, darling; I will bring you the prunes presently. 
Just wait a moment, till I have given him the 
milk. (Strains the almond milk.) 

Footman. 
[(sitting down.) I tell you I have seen something 

150 



ON ART 151 

tonight. To think that they pay good money 
for that ! 

Housekeeper. 
Oh, you have been to the theatre. You were 
out late to-night. 

Footman. 
An opera is always a long affair. I have al- 
ways to wait hours and hours. To-night they 
were kind, and let me in to see the performance. 

{The kitchen-maid, the manservant 
Pavel enters with the cream and stands 
listening.) 

Housekeeper. 
Then there was singing to-night? 

Footman. 
Singing — humph ! Just silly, loud screaming, 
not a bit like real singing. " I," he said — "I 
love her so much." And he puts it all to a tune, 
and it is not like anything under heaven. Then 
they had a row, and ought to have fought it out; 
but they started singing instead. 

Housekeeper. 

And yet I've heard it costs a lot to get seats for 
the season. 



152 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

Footman. 

Our box cost three hundred roubles for twelve 
nights. 

Pavel. 
(shaking his head.) Three hundred! And who 
does that money go to? 

Footman. 
Why, the people who sing are paid for it. I 
was told a lady singer makes fifty thousand a 
year. 

Pavel. 
You talk of thousands — why, three hundred is 
a pile of money in the country. Some folks toil 
their whole life long, and can't even get together 
one hundred. 

(Nina, a schoolgirl, enters the ser- 
vants' pantry.) 

Nina. 
Is Natasha here? Why don't you come? 
Mother wants you. 

Natasha. 
(munching a prune.) I am coming. 

Nina. 
(to Pavel.) What were you saying about a hun- 
dred roubles? 



ON ART 153 

Housekeeper. 

Simeon (pointing to the footman) was just tell- 
ing us about the singing he listened to to-night in 
the theatre, and about the lady singers being paid 
such a lot of money. That's what made Pavel 
wonder. Is that really true, Nina Mikhailovna, 
that a lady may get fifty thousand for her singing? 

Nina. 

More than that. A lady has been engaged to 
sing in America for a hundred and fifty thousand 
roubles. But even better than that, yesterday's 
paper says a musician has been paid fifty thousand 
roubles for his finger-nail. 

Pavel. 

The papers write all sorts of nonsense. That 
couldn't be. How could he be paid that? 

Nina. 
(evidently pleased.) He was, I tell you. 

Pavel. 
Just for a finger-nail? 

Natasha. 
How is that possible? 



i54 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

Nina. 
He was a pianist, and was insured for that 
amount in case anything happened to his hand, 
and he couldn't go on playing the piano. 

Pavel. 

Well, I'll be Mowed! 

Senichka. 

(a schoolboy in the upper class of the school, en- 
tering the pantry.) You've got a regular meet- 
ing here. What is it all about? 

(Nina tells him what they have 
been talking about.) 

Senichka. 

(with still more complacency than Nina.) That 
story of the nail is nothing at all. Why, a dancer 
in Paris had her foot insured for two hundred 
thousand roubles, in case she sprained it and was 
not able to go on dancing. 

Footman. 

That's them girls — excuse me for mentioning 
it — that work with their legs without any stock- 
ings on. 

Pavel. 
You call that work! And they are paid for it! 



ON ART 155 

Senichka. 
But every one cannot do that kind of work — 
and she had to study a good many years. 

Pavel. 

What did she study that did any good? Mere 
hopping about? 

Senichka. 

You don't understand. Art is a great thing. 

Pavel. 

I think it is all nonsense. People spend money 
like that because they have such an easy time. If 
they had to bend their backs as we do to make 
a living, there wouldn't be all these singing and 
dancing girls. They ain't worth anything — but 
what is the use of saying so ? 

Senichka. 
There we have the outcome of ignorance. To 
him Beethoven and Viardot and Rafael are utter 
folly. 

Natasha. 
Well, I think what he says is so. 

Nina. 
Come, let's go. 



ON SCIENCE 

Two schoolboys, one a pupil of the real gym- 
nasium* and the other of the classical gymnasium; 
two twins, brothers of the latter; VOLODIA and 
PetrushA, eight years of age. 

Science Scholar. 
What do I want with Latin and Greek, when 
everything of any value has been translated into 
the modern languages? 

Classical Scholar. 

You will never understand the Iliad unless you 
read it in Greek. 

Science Scholar. 

But I don't see the use of reading it. I don't 
want to. 

Volodia. 
What is the Iliad? 

Science Scholar. 
A story. 

*A school for natural science without Greek and Latin; in 
the classical gymnasium Latin and Greek are taught. 

156 



ON SCIENCE 157 

Classical Scholar. 
Yes, a story, but one that has not its equal in 
the world. 

Petrusha. 

What is it that makes the story so particularly 
good? 

Science Scholar. 

Nothing. It is just a story, and nothing else. 
Classical Scholar. 

Yes; but you cannot really understand antiquity 
without a knowledge of this story. 

Science Scholar. 

I consider that a superstition just like religious 
instruction. 

Classical Scholar. 

(getting excited.) Religious instruction is noth- 
ing but lies arid nonsense, while this is history and 
wisdom. 

Volodia. 
Is religious instruction all nonsense? 
Classical Scholar. 

Why do you sit there listening to our talk? 
You can't understand. 

Both Boys. 
(hurt.) Why shouldn't we? 



158 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

VOLODIA. 

Perhaps we understand things better than you 
do. 

Classical Scholar. 
Very well. Just be quiet, and don't interrupt. 
( To the Science Scholar.) You say Latin and 
Greek is of no use in life : but that applies as well 
to bacteriology, to chemistry, to physics, and as- 
tronomy. Why is it necessary to know anything 
about the distance of the stars, about their size, 
and all those unnecessary details? 

Science Scholar. 

Unnecessary? On the contrary, they arc very 
necessary indeed. 

Classical Scholar. 
What for? 

Science Scholar. 
Why, for everything. Take navigation. You 
would think that had not much to do with astron- 
omy. But look at the practical results of science 
— the way it is applied to agriculture, to medicine, 
to the industries — 

Classical Scholar. 
On the other hand, it is used also in making 
bombs, for purposes of war, and for revolutionary 



ON SCIENCE 159 

objects as well. If science contributed to the 
moral improvement, then — 

Science Scholar. 
But what about your sort of knowledge? Does 
that raise the moral standard? 

Volodia. 
Is there any science that makes people better? 

Classical Scholar. 

I told you not to interfere in the discussions of 
grown-up people. You say nothing but silly 
things. 

Volodia and Petrusha. 

{with one voice.) Not so silly as you im- 
agine. . . . Just tell us which science teaches 
people how to be good. 

Science Scholar. 
There isn't such a science. Everybody has to 
find that out for himself. 

Classical Scholar. 
What is the use of talking to them? They don't 
understand. 

Science Scholar. 
Why not? They might. How to be good, 
Volodia and Petrusha, is not taught in schools. 



160 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

VOLODIA. 

Well, if that is not taught, it is no use going to 
school. 

Petrusha. 

When we are grown up we will not learn useless 
things. 

VOLODIA. 

As for the right way to live, we'll do that better 
than you. 

Classical Scholar. 
(laughing.) Oh, the wisdom of that conclusion! 



ON GOING TO LAW 

A Peasant, His Wife, a Kinswoman, Fedia, 
the peasant 9 s son, a lad of nineteen. PetkA, an- 
other son, a boy of nine. 

Father. 
{entering the cottage and taking of his cloak.) 
What beastly weather ! I could hardly manage to 
get home. 

Mother. 
And such a long way for you. It must be 
nearly fifteen miles. 

Father. 
Not less than twenty, I can tell you. ( To his 
son, Fedia.) Take the colt to the stable. 

Mother. 

Well, have we won ? 

Peasant. 

We have not, damn it all. It will never come 
right. 

161 



1 62 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

Kinswoman. 

But what is it all about, cousin? I don't quite 
understand. 

Peasant. 
It is simply that Averian has taken possession 
of my vegetable garden and is holding it. And I 
can't get at him in the right way. 

Wife. 
That lawsuit has been dragging along over a 
year now. 

Kinswoman. 

I know, I know. I remember as far back as 
Lent, when the matter was before the village 
court. My man told me it had been settled in 
your favour. 

Peasant. 

That finished it, didn't it? But Averian ap- 
pealed to the head of the Zemstvo,* and he had 
the whole business gone into again. I then ap- 
pealed to the judge and won. That ought to have 
been the end of it. But it wasn't. After that he 
won. Nice sort of judges they are! 

Wife. 
What are we to do now ? 

* County council. 



ON GOING TO LAW 163 

Peasant. 
I won't stand his having my property. I will 
appeal to the higher court, I have already had a 
talk with a lawyer. 

Kinswoman. 

But suppose they take his side in the upper 
court? 

Peasant. 
Then I'll go to the Supreme Court I'll sell 
my last cow before I'll give in to that fat hound. 
I'll teach him a lesson. 

Kinswoman. 

A lot of trouble comes from these trials, a lot of 
trouble, I declare! And suppose he wins again? 

Peasant. 
Then I'll appeal to the Tsar. Now I had bet- 
ter go out and give the pony some hay. (Exit.) 

Petka. 
Why do they judge like that, some saying Aver- 
ian is right and some daddy? 

Mother. 
Probably because they don't know who is right 
themselves. 



1 64 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

Petka. 

Then why ask them, if they don't know? 

Mother. 

Because nobody wants to give up his property. 

Petka. 

When I grow up, I will do like this : If I have 
a dispute with somebody, we will cast lots and see 
who wins. And that will settle it. We always 
settle it this way with Akulika. 

Kinswoman. 

Don't you think, cousin, that is quite a good 
way? One sin less, anyhow. 

Mother. 

Quite so. What a lot we have spent on that 
trial! More than the whole vegetable garden is 
worth. Oh, it is a sin, a great sin ! 



ON THE CRIMINAL COURT 

Children: Grishka, Semka, Jishka. 

Jishka. 

Serves him right. Why did he make his way 
into another person's corn loft? When he is put 
in prison that will teach him not to do it another 
time. 

Semka. 
Of course if he has really done it. But old 
Mikita said Mitrofan was run into prison without 
being guilty. 

Jishka. 
Without being guilty? And won't anything 
happen to the man who judged him falsely? 

Grishka. 

Well, they won't pat him on the head for it, of 
course. If he hasn't judged according to law he 
will be punished too. 

165 



i66 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

Semka. 
Who will punish him? 

JlSHKA. 

Those above him. 

Semka. 
Who are above him? 

Grishka. 
His superiors. 

JlSHKA. 

And if the superiors also make a mistake? 
Grishka. 

There are higher powers above them, and they 
will be punished by these. That's what the Tsar 
is for. 

JlSHKA. 

But if the Tsar judges wrong, who is going to 
punish him ? 

Grishka. 
Who? Why do you ask that? Don't you 
know? 

Semka*. 
God will punish him. 

JlSHKA. 
God will also punish him who stole the corn 
from the loft. Then why not leave it to God to 



ON THE CRIMINAL COURT 167 

punish those who are guilty? He will not judge 
wrong. 

Grishka. 
It's clear that that is not possible. 

JlSHKA. 

Why not? 

Grishka. 
Because ... 



ON PROPERTY 

An old carpenter is mending the railings on a 
veranda. A boy of seven, the son of the master 
of the house, is watching the man working. 

Boy. 
How well you work! What is your name? 

Carpenter. 

My name? They used to call me Hrolka, and 
now they call me Hrol, and even Hrol Savich* 
when they speak respectfully. 

Boy. 
How well you work, Frol Savich. 

Carpenter. 
As long as you have to work, you may as well 
do good work. 

Boy. 
Have you got a veranda in your house? 

* The name is Frol, but the common way of the ignorant masses 
is to use H, instead of F. It is as if one said Johnny then John 
and then John Smith. 

168 



ON PROPERTY 169 

Carpenter. 
In our house? We have a veranda, my boy, 
yours here is nothing to compare with it. A ver- 
anda with no windows. And if you step on to it, 
well, you can't believe your eyes. That's the kind 
of veranda we've got. 

Boy. 

You are making fun. No, seriously, tell me: 
have you a veranda like this? I want to know. 

Carpenter. 

My dear child, how can the likes of us have a 
veranda? It's a blessing if we've a roof over our 
heads, and you say, " a veranda ! " I've been 
thinking about having a roof built ever since last 
spring. I've just managed to pull down the old 
one, but the new one isn't finished, and the house 
is standing there and getting damp without it. 

Boy. 
(surprised.) But why? 

Carpenter. 
Why? Just because I am not able to do it. 

Boy. 

How so? If you are able to work for us? 



i 7 o THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 
Carpenter. 
I can work all right for you, but not for my- 
self. 

Boy. 
Why? I can't understand. Please explain. 

Carpenter. 
You will understand when you are grown up. 
I am able to do your work, but as for my own, I 
can't do it. 

Boy. 
But why? 

Carpenter. 
Because I need wood for that, and I haven't got 
any. It has to be bought. I have nothing to buy 
it with. When I have finished my work here, 
and your mother pays me, just you tell her to pay 
me well. Then I'll drive to the forest, get five 
ash-trees or so to bring home and finish my roof. 

Boy. 
Do you mean you haven't a forest of your own? 

Carpenter. 

We have such big forests that you can walk 
three whole days and not reach the end. But, 
worse luck, they don't belong to us. 



ON PROPERTY 171 

Boy. 

Mother says all her trouble comes from our 
forest; she has continual worries about it. 

Carpenter. 
That's the worst of it. Your mother is worried 
by having too much wood, and I'm worried by 
having none at all. But here I am gabbling with 
you and forgetting my work. And the likes of us 
don't get made much of for doing that. 

{Resumes his work.) 
Boy. 
When I grow up I shall arrange to have just 
the same as everybody else, so that all of us are 
equal. 

Carpenter. 
Mind you grow up quickly, that I may still be 
alive. Then, mind you, don't forget. . . . 
Where have I put my plane? 



ON CHILDREN 

A Lady with her children — a Schoolboy of 
fourteen, a girl of five, Janichka, are walking in 
the garden. An Old Peasant Woman ap- 
proaches them. 

Lady. 
What do you want, Matresha? 
Old Woman. 

I have come again to ask a favour of your lady- 
ship. 

Lady. 
What is it? 

Old Woman. 

I am simply ashamed to speak, your ladyship, 
but that don't help. My daughter, the one for 
whom you stood godmother, has got another baby. 
God has given her a boy this time. She sent me 
to ask your ladyship if you would do her a favour, 
and have the child christened into our Orthodox 
faith.* 

* When a lady in Russia stands godmother she gives the chris- 
tening robes and a dress to the mother. The godfather pays the 
priest and gives his godchild a cross. 

172 



ON CHILDREN 173 

Lady. 

But didn't she have a child very recently? 

Old Woman. 

Well, that's just as you think. A year ago in 
Lent. 

Lady. 
How many grandchildren have you got now? 

Old Woman. 
I could hardly tell you, dear lady. All of them 
are still babes. Such a misfortune ! 

Lady. 
How many children has your daughter? 

Old Woman. 
This is the seventh child, your ladyship, and all 
alive. I wish God had taken some back to Him. 

Lady. 
How can you speak like that? 

Old Woman. 

I can't help it. That's how one comes to sin. 
But then our misery is so great. Well, your lady- 
ship, are you willing to help us, and stand god- 
mother to the child? Believe me, on my soul, 



174 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

lady, we have not even got anything to pay the 
priest; bread itself is scarce in the house. All the 
children are small. My son-in-law is working 
away from home, and I am alone with my daugh- 
ter. I am old, and she is expecting or nursing 
the whole time, and what work can you ask her 
to do with all that? So it is me that has to do 
everything. And that hungry lot all the while 
asking for food. 

Lady. 

Are there really seven children? 

Old Woman. 

Seven, your ladyship, sure. Just the eldest girl 
begins to help a bit; all the rest are little. 

Lady. 
But why do they have such a lot of children? 

Old Woman. 

How can one help that, dear lady? He comes 
now and then for a short stay, or just for a feast 
day. They are young, and he lives near in town. 
I wish he had to go somewhere far away. 

Lady. 
That's the way! Some people are sad because 



ON CHILDREN 175 

they have no children, or their children die, and 
you complain of having too many. 

Old Woman. 
They are too many. We have not the means 
to keep them. Well, your ladyship, may I cheer 
her up with your consent? 

Lady. 
Well, I will stand godmother to this one like 
the others. It is a boy, you say? 

Old Woman. 
It's a small baby, but very strong; he's got 
good lungs. What day do you order the chris- 
tening to be? 

Lady. 
Whenever you like. 

[(Old Woman thanks her and goes.) 

Janichka. 
Mother, why is it that some people have chil- 
dren and some have not? You have, Matresha, 
has, but Parasha hasn't any. 

Lady. 

Parasha is not married. People have children 
when they are married. They marry, become 
husband and wife, and then only children come. 



176 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

Janichka. 
Do they always get children then? 

Lady. 
No, not always. Our cook has a wife, but they 
have no children. 

Janichka. 
Couldn't it be arranged that only those who 
want children should have them, and those who 
don't want them should have none? 

Schoolboy. 
What nonsense you talk ! 

Janichka. 
That is not nonsense at all. I only thought 
that if Matresha's daughter doesn't want to have 
children, it ought to be arranged so that she 
shouldn't have any. Couldn't it be arranged, 
mother? 

Schoolboy. 
Have I not told you not to talk nonsense about 
things you know nothing about? 

Janichka. 
Mother, could it be arranged as I say? 

Lady. 

I don't know: we never know about that. It 
all depends on the will of God. 



ON CHILDREN 177 

Janichka. 
But How do children come into the world? 

Schoolboy. 
The goat brings them. 

Janichka. 

{hurt.) Why do you tease me? I don't see 
anything to laugh at in what I am saying. But I 
do think that since Matresha says they are worse 
off for having children, it ought to be managed so 
that no children should be born to her. There is 
Nurse who has none. 

Lady. 
But she is not married. 

Janichka. 
Then all those that do not care for children 
ought not to marry. As it is now, children are 
born and people have nothing to feed them with. 
{The mother exchanges a glance with her son, and 
does not answer.) When I am grown up I will 
marry by all means, and I shall see that I have one 
girl and one boy, and no more. Do you think it 
is nice when children are born and people don't 
care for them? As for mine, I shall love them 
dearly. Don't you think so, mother? I will go 
and ask Nurse. {Exit.) 



1 78 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

Lady. 
(to her son.) Yes, truth flows from the lips of 
children. What she says is a great truth. If 
people would understand how serious marriage is, 
instead of regarding it as amusement — if they 
would marry not for their own sake, but for the 
sake of the children — then all these horrors 
would not exist. There would be no children suf- 
fering from neglect or distress, nor would such 
cases happen as that of Matresha's daughter, 
where children bring sorrow in place of joy. 



ON EDUCATION. 

The Yard Porter is cleaning the handles of 
the doors. Katia, a girl of seven, is building a 
house with blocks. Nicholas, a schoolboy of 
fifteen, enters with a book and throws it angrily 
on the floor. 

Nicholas. 
To the devil with that damned school ! 

Porter. 
What is the matter with it? 
Nicholas. 
Again a bad mark. That means more new 
trouble. Damn it all! What do I want their 
cursed geography for? California — why is it 
necessary to know about California? 

Porter. 
What will they do to you ? 

Nicholas. 
They will keep me another year in that same 
old class. 

179 



1 80 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

Porter. 
Then why don't you learn your lessons? 

Nicholas. 
Why? Because I can't learn the stupid things. 
Damn it all! (Throwing himself on a chair.) 
I'll go and tell mother. I'll tell her I can't do it. 
Let them do whatever they like but I can't do it. 
And if after that she doesn't take me out of school 
I will run away from home. I swear I will. 

Porter. 
But where will you go ? 

Nicholas. 
Just away. I will look out for a place as a 
coachman, or a yard porter. Anything is better 
than having to learn that cursed nonsense. 

Porter. 
But to be a yard porter is not an easy job 
either, I can tell you. A porter has to get up 
early, chop wood, carry it in, make fires — 

Nicholas. 

Whew! (Whistles.) But that is like a holi- 
day. I love chopping wood. I simply adore it. 
No, that would not stop me. No, you just try 
what it is to learn geography. 



ON EDUCATION 181 

Porter. 
You're right there. But why do you learn it? 
What use is it to you? Is it that they make you 
doit? 

Nicholas. 
I wish I knew why. It is of no use whatever. 
But that's the rule. They think one cannot do 
without it. 

Porter. 
I dare say it is necessary for you in order to 
become an official, to get honours, high appoint- 
ments, like your father and uncle. 

Nicholas. 

But since I don't care for all that. 

Katia. 

Since he does not care ! 

{Enter Mother, with a letter in her 
hand.) 

Mother. 

I have just heard from the director of the 
school that you have got a bad mark again. That 
won't do, Nikolenka. It must be one thing or 
the other: learn or not learn. 

Nicholas. 
I'll stick to the one: I cannot, I cannot, I can- 



1 82 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

not learn. For God's sake, let me go. I cannot 
learn. 

Mother. 
You cannot learn? 

Nicholas. 
I cannot. It won't get into my head. 

Mother. 
That is because your head is full of nonsense. 
Don't think about all your stupid things, but con- 
centrate your mind on the lessons you have to 
learn. 

Nicholas. 
Mother, I am talking seriously. Take me away 
from school. I wish for nothing else in the world 
but to get rid of that dreadful school, of that 
treadmill ! I can't stand it. 

Mother. 
But what would you do out of school? 

Nicholas. 
That is my own business. 

Mother. 
It is not your own business, but mine. I have 
to answer to God for you. I must give you an 
education. 



ON EDUCATION 183 

Nicholas. 
But since I cannot. 

Mother. 

(severely.) What nonsense to say you cannot. 
For the last time, I will speak to you like a mother. 
I beseech you to mend your ways and to do what 
is required of you. If you will not obey me this 
time I shall take other measures. 

Nicholas. 
I tell you, I cannot and I will not learn. 

Mother. 
Take care, Nicholas. 

Nicholas. 
Why should I take care? Why do you torture 
me? Don't you see you do ! 

Mother. 
I forbid you to speak like that. How dare 
you ! Go away ! You will see — 

Nicholas. 
Very well — I will go. I am not afraid of 
whatever comes, and I don't want anything from 
you. (Dashes out of the room and bangs the 
door.) 



1 84 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

Mother. 
(to herself.) How unhappy he makes me. I 
know exactly how it has all come about. It is all 
because he does not think about the things he 
ought to do, and his head is full of nothing but 
his own stupid interests, his dogs, and his hens. 

Katia. 
But, mother, you remember the tale you told 
me: how impossible it is not to think about the 
white polar bear when you are told not to. 

Mother. 
I am not speaking of that; I say a boy has to 
learn when he is told to. 

Katia. 
But he says he cannot. 

Mother. 
That's nonsense. 

Katia. 
But he does not say he is not willing to do any 
work whatever. He only objects to learning 
geography. He wants to work, to be a coachman, 
a yard-porter. 

Mother. 
If he had been a yard-porter's son he might 



ON EDUCATION 185 

become one himself. But being your father's son 
he must learn. 

Katia. 
But he does not want to. 

Mother. 
Whether he wants to or not he must obey. 

Katia. 
And if he simply cannot learn? 

Mother. 
Take care that you are not like him yourself. 

Katia. 
That's just what I want to be. I shall not, on 
any condition, learn what I do not wish to. 

Mother. 
Then you will grow up a fool. 

Katia. 
And when I am grown up, and have children, I 
will never compel them to learn. If they want to 
they may learn, if not, let them do without learn- 
ing. 

Mother. 

When you are grown up, you will be sure to 
have changed your mind. 



1 86 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 

Katia. 
I shall certainly not. 

Mother. 
You will. 

Katia. 
No, I shall not, I shall not. 
Mother. 
Then you will be a fool. 

Katia. 
Nurse says God wants fools also. 



THE POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF THE 
HERMIT, FEDOR KUSMICH 



THE POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF THE 
HERMIT, FEDOR KUSMICH 

There were strange tales about the old hermit, 
Fedor Kusmich, who appeared in Siberia in the 
year 1836, and lived there in various places dur- 
ing the space of twenty-seven years. Even before 
he died it used to be said of him that he concealed 
his indentity — that he was no other than the 
Emperor Alexander L, but after his death these 
tales spread and came to be more firmly believed. 
That he positively was Alexander I. was consid- 
ered a fact not only among the commoner people, 
but also in the highest circles; and even in the 
royal family in Alexander III.'s lifetime. It was 
also believed by the learned historian, Shilder, 
who wrote a history of his reign. 

The incidents which gave rise to these rumours 
were, firstly, that the Emperor died quite suddenly 
without any serious illness; secondly, that it hap- 
pened away from everybody in the obscure town 
of Vaganrog; thirdly, it was declared by those 
who had chanced to see him in his coffin that he 
had changed to such an extent as to be hardly 

189 



i 9 o FEDOR KUSMICH 

recognisable, and was in consequence kept cov- 
ered and not shown to any one; fourthly, he was 
known to have both said and written a great 
many times, especially in his later years, that he 
desired nothing better than to give up his throne 
and retire from the world. A fifth circumstance, 
about which very little is known, is the fact that 
in the official record describing his body, it was 
stated that the whole of his back was covered with 
black and blue marks, a thing hardly credible on 
the Emperor's delicate skin. 

The reasons why Kusmich in particular was 
believed to be the Emperor in hiding, were first 
of all, that in height, build, and appearance he was 
so much like the monarch. Everybody (even the 
palace servants) who had seen Alexander I. and 
his portraits, was struck by the great resemblance 
between him and the old man, both in regard to 
age and the characteristic stoop. Secondly, al- 
though Kusmich passed as a nameless tramp, he 
was nevertheless familiar with foreign languages, 
and in his bearing there was a certain majestic 
courtesy betokening a man accustomed to the 
highest positon. Thirdly, he never revealed his 
identity to any one, but from certain expressions 
that escaped him unawares, it could plainly be seen 
that he was a man who had once ranked high 
above others. Fourthly, he had destroyed all his 



FEDOR KUSMICH 191 

papers, of which but one page remained, bearing 
a mysterious sign and the initials A. P. Lastly, 
in spite of his great piety, the old man never went 
to confession. When the bishop, during his visit, 
tried to induce him to fulfil this duty which was 
enjoined by the Church, Kusmich said, " If I re- 
frained from telling the truth about myself in con- 
fession, I should astonish all in heaven; if I dis- 
closed who I was, I should astonish all on earth." 
All these doubts and conjectures were cleared 
up by the discovery of the old man's diary, which 
begins as follows : — 

I 

God bless my dearest friend, Ivan Gregorievich, 
for this delightful retreat. I am not worthy of 
his kindness, nor of God's mercy. Here I am at 
peace. There are less people to disturb me, and 
I am left alone with the recollections of my past 
wickedness and with my Maker. I will take ad- 
vantage of this solitude to relate the whole story 
of my life. It may prove a warning to others. 

For forty-seven years I lived amidst the most 
terrible temptations, and not only made no attempt 
to resist them, but abandoned myself to them — 
I sinned and made others sin. At last the Lord 
had mercy on me. The loathsomeness of my 



i 9 2 FEDOR KUSMICH 

life was revealed to me in all its horrors, and 
He delivered me from evil; if not wholly, at any 
rate from active participation in it. What inner 
anguish I went through, and what took place in 
my soul when I realised my transgressions and 
felt the need of atonement, not merely by faith 
but by deeds and by suffering, I will relate in due 
course. I will now describe the way in which I 
escaped from my position, leaving in my place the 
corpse of a soldier, who had been tortured to death 
in my name, and then proceed to relate my whole 
story from the very beginning. 

It happened like this : In Vaganrog I continued 
the same life of dissipation I had been leading for 
the past twenty-four years. I am the greatest of 
all criminals. I murdered my own father; I 
caused the death of hundreds of thousands of 
men in wars of my making. I am a base libertine, 
a mean wretch, who believed in other people's 
flatteries, and who considered myself the saviour 
of Europe, a benefactor of mankind, a model of 
perfection, un heureux hasard, as I once said to 
Madame Stahl. But in spite of it all, the Lord 
in His mercy did not quite forsake me, and the 
ever watchful voice of conscience gave me no rest. 
It seemed to me that everything and everybody 
were wrong; I only was right, and every one failed 
to see it. I turned to God. At first, with Fotey's 



FEDOR KUSMICH 193 

help, I prayed to the God of the Orthodox Church ; 
then I turned to the Catholic; then to the Protes- 
tant with Parrot; then to the god of the Mystics 
with Krudener; but I only prayed that others 
might see and be filled with admiration of me. I 
used to despise everybody, yet the opinion of the 
very people I despised was the one thing of im- 
portance to me — the only thing for which I lived, 
and which guided all my actions. It was terrible 
to be left alone. Still more terrible to be alone 
with her — with my wife. Consumptive, narrow- 
minded, deceitful, capricious, spiteful, hypocriti- 
cal, she did more to poison my life than anything 
else. Nous etions censes to spend our new lune 
de miel, a very hell clothed in decent garb, too 
horrible to think of. 

I felt particularly wretched on one occasion. I 
had received a letter from Arakcheev the night 
before, in which he informed me about the assassi- 
nation of his mistress, and spoke of his utter grief 
and despair. Strange to say, in spite of his con- 
stant subtle flattery, I liked him. It was not 
altogether flattery, perhaps, but a real dog-like 
devotion, which began even in my father's time, 
when we both took the oath of allegiance to him 
unknown to my grandmother. This devotion of 
his made me love him — if I loved any man at that 
time — although the word love can hardly be used 



i 9 4 FEDOR KUSMICH 

in connection with such a monster. What drew 
me to him particularly was the fact that not only 
had he no hand in my father's death, as so many 
others had who became hateful to me afterwards 
as accomplices in my crime, but he had been de- 
voted alike to him and to me. However, of this 
later. 

Strange to say, the murder of the beautiful, 
wicked Nastasia — she was a sensuous beauty — * 
had the effect of arousing all my desires so that I 
could not sleep the whole night. The fact that 
my consumptive wife, whom I loathed, was lying 
in the room next but one to me, coupled with 
thoughts of Mary Narishkin, who had thrown me 
over for an insignificant diplomat, vexed and tor- 
mented me still more. Both my father and I 
seemed to have been doomed to be jealous of the 
Gagarins. But I was carried away again. I 
could not sleep the whole of that night. With the 
first signs of dawn I pulled up my blind, slipped 
on a white dressing-gown, and rang for my valet. 
Every one was still asleep. I dressed, put on a 
civilian overcoat and cap, and went out past the 
sentinels into the street. 

It was a cool, autumn morning, the sun was just 
rising over the sea. I felt revived in the fresh 
air, and my depressing thoughts left me. I turned 
my steps towards the sea. The first rays of the 



FEDOR KUSMICH 195 

rising sun were dancing about on its surface. I 
had barely reached the green-coloured house at the 
corner when I was attracted by sounds of drum- 
ming and piping from the square. I listened for 
a moment, and guessed that a punishment was 
going on, that some one was running the gauntlet. 
I had frequently sanctioned this form of punish- 
ment, but had never seen it before. All at once, 
as though at the instigation of Satan himself, a 
picture rose up in my mind of the beautiful Nas- 
tasia who had been murdered, and of the soldier's 
body as it was being lashed with sticks, the two 
mingling together in one maddening sensation. 
I tried to recall this punishment in the Semijonov 
regiment, amongst the military settlers, hundreds 
of whom had been flogged to death in this way, 
and was suddenly seized by an overwhelming de- 
sire to witness this sight. As I was in civilian 
garb, it was quite possible for me to do so. The 
beating of the drum and the sound of the pipes 
grew louder as I drew nearer the square. Being 
short-sighted, I could not see very well without 
my glasses, but I could just make out a tall figure 
with a white back, marching along between two 
rows of soldiers. When I joined the crowd stand- 
ing behind, I got out my glasses, and could see 
everything that was going on distinctly. A tall 
man with his bare arms tied to a bayonet, his bare 



196 FEDOR KUSMICH 

back — on which the blood was beginning to show 
itself — slightly bent, was walking down an 
avenue of soldiers armed with sticks. This man 
was the image of myself — my double I The 
same height, stooping shoulders, bald head, the 
same kind of whiskers without a moustache, the 
same cheek-bones, mouth, and blue eyes. But 
there was no smile on those lips that opened and 
contorted with pain at the blows, no tender, caress- 
ing expression in those eyes that protruded horri- 
bly, now closing, now opening. 

I recognised him at once. It was Strumensky, 
a corporal in the third company of the Semijonov 
regiment, well known to the guards by his likeness 
to me. They used to call him Alexander II. in 
fun. I knew that he had been transferred to the 
garrison, together with some other rebels, and had 
most likely tried to escape or something of the 
sort, and having been caught, was undergoing pun- 
ishment. I confirmed this afterwards. I stood 
as one petrified, gazing at the unfortunate man, as 
he was marching along under the blows. Sud- 
denly I noticed that the crowd was staring at me, 
some people stepping aside, others approaching 
nearer. I had evidently been recognised; I turned 
my steps quickly homewards. The drumming and 
piping continued, so I gathered that the flogging 
was not yet over. 



FEDOR KUSMICH 197 

My first sensation on getting away was that my 
sympathies ought to be on the side of those who 
were inflicting the punishment; at any rate, that 
I ought to acknowledge that what they were doing 
was right, good, and necessary. But I could not 
do this, and was at the same time conscious that 
if I did not acknowledge it, I must admit that my 
whole life had been wrong from beginning to end, 
and that I ought to do what I had long ago 
wanted to do — throw up everything, go away, 
and disappear. 

I was completely overwhelmed by this sensation. 
I tried to fight against it, now assuring myself that 
the thing was right, a grievous necessity that could 
not be dispensed with; now feeling that I ought 
to be in the unfortunate man's place. Strange to 
say, I did not pity the man in the least. Instead 
of doing anything to stop the proceeding, I has- 
tened home merely to avoid recognition. Soon the 
drumming ceased, and the disturbing sensation 
somehow left me. I had some tea on reaching 
home, and received Volkonsky with his report. 
Then there was breakfast, the usual burdensome, 
insincere relations with my wife; then Dibich, and 
another report dealing with certain informations 
about a secret society. With God's grace I will 
deal with this more fully in its proper place. I 
will merely say now that I received the informa- 



198 FEDOR KUSMICH 

tion with outward composure. I continued in a 
more or less calm state until dinner came to an end, 
when I went into my study, lay down on the 
couch, and dozed off. I had scarcely been asleep 
for five minutes when I was suddenly awakened 
by a powerful shock. I distinctly heard the beat- 
ing of the drum, the sound of the pipes and Stru- 
mensky's cries. I saw his agonised face, or mine 
— I was not quite sure which; whether it was Stru- 
mensky or myself — and the grim contorted faces 
of the soldiers and officers. I remained in this 
trance for a short time, and when I came to my- 
self put on my hat and sword, and went out say- 
ing that I was going for a walk. I knew where 
the military hospital was situated, and directed my 
steps straight there. My appearance caused a 
great tumult as usual. The chief doctor and head 
of the staff came running up breathless. I told 
them that I wished to inspect the wards. On my 
round I caught sight of Strumensky's bald head in 
the second ward. He was lying face downwards, 
his head resting on his arm, moaning pitifully. 
" He's been punished for desertion," some one 
said to me. 

" Ah ! " I exclaimed, with my usual gesture of 
approval, and walked on. 

The next day I sent a messenger to ask how 
he was, and learnt that he had received the sacra- 
ment and was dying. 



FEDOR KUSMICH 199 

It was my brother Michael's name-day; there 
was a special service and parade. I feigned to be 
unwell, as a result of my recent journey from the 
Crimea, and did not go to church. Dibich came 
again and continued his report about the conspir- 
acy in the second army. He drew my attention to 
what Count Vitt had said before my Crimean visit, 
and to the information that had been received from 
Corporal Sherwood. Whilst listening to Dibich, 
and seeing the immense importance he attached to 
these plots and conspiracies, I was suddenly struck 
by the full significance of the revolution that had 
taken place within me. All these people were 
conspiring to change the form of government, 
to set up a constitution, the very thing I had my- 
self wanted to do twenty years ago. I had 
made and unmade constitutions in Europe, but 
was there one soul the better for it? What right 
had I to take such a task upon myself? In re- 
ality external life, external affairs and participa- 
tion in them were unimportant, unnecessary, and 
had nothing whatever to do with me. Had I not 
participated in them to the full, changed the fates 
of European nations? I suddenly realised that 
this did not concern me, that the only thing of 
importance to me, was myself — my soul. My 
former ideas about abdication came back to me 
with new force. This time it was without any 
affectation, without any desire to grieve others, 



200 FEDOR KUSMICH 

to astonish the world, or to add to my own ag- 
grandisement — all the things that had prompted 
me formerly; but it was with a real sincerity, not 
for the sake of impressing others, but for myself 
— for the needs of my own soul. It seemed as if 
I had gone through my brilliant career (in the 
worldly sense of course), in order to return to 
that dream of my youth, which had reached me 
through penitence. I had come back to it with no 
feeling of vanity or desire for self glorification; it 
was for my true self alone, for God. In my youth 
the idea had not been quite clear to me, but now 
it seemed to me impossible to go on living as I 
had been doing. Nevertheless how could I es- 
cape? I no longer wished to astonish the world, 
but on the contrary wanted to go away quietly, 
unknown to any one — to go away and suffer. I 
was so filled with joy at the idea that I began 
considering ways and means of accomplishing it, 
and used all the resources of my mind and my 
peculiar subtleness to bring it about. Curiously 
enough it was not nearly so difficult as I had 
anticipated. My plan was to feign a dangerous 
illness, bribe the doctor, get Strumensky, who was 
dying, put in my place, and flee without disclosing 
my identity to any one. 

Everything turned out favourably. On the 
9th, by some peculiar fate, I fell ill of a fever. I 



FEDOR KUSMICH 201 

stayed in bed for about a week, during which time 
I considered my idea thoroughly, and became 
more confirmed in it. On the 16th I got up feel- 
ing quite well again. 

I shaved as usual on that day and cut myself 
rather badly. I bled a great deal, and feeling 
faint dropped down on the floor. People came 
rushing in, and I was immediately raised. I could 
see at a glance that the incident might prove 
useful to my purpose, and though I had quite re- 
covered, pretended to be very weak, and going 
back to bed and asked for Doctor Villier's assist- 
ant. I knew it would have been impossible to 
bribe Villier, but I had hopes of his assistant. I 
told him of my purpose and offered him eighty 
thousand roubles, if he would do everything I 
wanted of him. 

I had hit on the following plan, having heard 
that Strumensky was not expected to live through 
the day, I pretended to be irritated and annoyed 
with everybody, and allowed no one to come near 
me except the young doctor, whom I had bribed. 
He was to bring Strumensky's body hidden in a 
bath, put him in my place, and announce my sud- 
den death. It all happened as we had arranged 
it, and on the 7th day of November I was a free 
man. 

Strumensky's body was buried in great state. 



202 FEDOR KUSMICH 

My brother Nicholas came to the throne, con- 
demning the conspirators to hard labour. I met 
several of them later in Siberia. I have suffered 
very little in comparison to the enormity of my 
crime, and have enjoyed the greatest of all hap- 
piness. But I will speak of this in due course. 

An old man of seventy-two, on the brink of the 
grave, fully realising the vanity of my former life 
and the deep significance of my present one as 
a wanderer, I will now endeavour to relate the 
whole story of the past. 

II 

THE STORY OF MY LIFE 

December 12, 1849, 
Near Krasnorechinsk, Siberia. 

To-day is my birthday. I have reached my 
seventy-second year. Exactly seventy-two years 
ago I was born in the Winter Palace in St. Peters- 
burg. My mother, the Empress, was then the 
Grand Duchess Maria Fedorovna. 

I slept well last night, and feel better than I did 
yesterday. I have come out of my spiritual torpor 
and can turn once more to God. During the 
night I prayed in the darkness, and a conscious- 
ness came upon me that my one and only purpose in 



FEDOR KUSMICH 203 

life was to serve Him who had sent me into the 
world. 

It is within my own power either to serve or 
not to serve Him. Serving Him I add to my own 
good and to the good of the whole world; not 
serving Him I forfeit my own good, and deprive 
the world of that good which was in my power 
to create; not, however, of its potential good. 
What I ought to have done, others will do after 
me, and His will shall be fulfilled. This is the 
meaning of free will. But if He knows every- 
thing that is to be, if all is ordained by Him, then 
how can there be free will? I do not know. 
This is the boundary of thought and the begin- 
ning of prayer. Let Thy will be done, O Lord. 
Help us. Come and dwell within us. Or more 
simply: Lord have mercy upon us! Lord have 
mercy upon us ! Lord have mercy upon us, and 
forgive us our sins! Words fail me, O Lord, but 
Thou knowest what is in my heart, for Thou 
dwellest in it. And so I fell asleep. I was rest- 
less as usual, woke up several times, and had bad 
dreams. I seemed to be swimming in the sea, 
and wondering how it was that I lay so high above 
the water; why the water did not cover me. The 
sea was a beautiful green, and some people seemed 
to be in my way. 

I wanted to come out of the water, but could 



20 4 FEDOR KUSMICH 

not, because several women were standing on the 
shore and I was naked. I took the dream to 
mean that the power of the flesh was strong within 
me, standing in my way, but deliverance was close 
at hand. I got up before dawn, struck a flint, but 
could not light the tinder for a long time, after 
which, putting on my dressing-gown of elk skin, I 
went out into the fresh air. The rosy orange glow 
of the rising sun could be seen behind the snow- 
clad pines and larches. I brought in the wood 
which I chopped yesterday, lit my stove, and began 
chopping some more. It grew lighter. I had 
my breakfast of soaked rusks, shut the damper 
of the stove as soon as the logs were red, and sat 
down to write. 

I begin again. I was born on ioth December 
1777, and was named Alexander by my grand- 
mother's wish, in the hope, as she afterwards told 
me, that I should become as great as Alexander 
of Macedonia, and as holy as Alexander Nevsky. 
I was christened a week after my birth in the big 
church of the palace. I was carried into the 
church by the Duchess of Courland on a brocade 
pillow, whilst a number of other great personages 
held a cover over me. The Empress was my 
godmother, the Emperor of Austria and the King 
of Prussia were my godfathers. 



FEDOR KUSMICH 205 

My room was arranged according to my grand- 
mother's taste. I can of course remember noth- 
ing about it, but have been told by other people. 
It was a large room with three high windows. A 
space was portioned off in the middle by four 
columns, with a velvety canopy overhead fastened 
to the ceiling, and silk curtains falling to the 
ground. Under this canopy there was a little 
iron bedstead with a leather mattress, a little pil- 
low, and a light English blanket. The whole was 
enclosed by a rail four feet high, so that visitors 
should not come too close. There was no furni- 
ture in the room with the exception of the nurse's 
bed behind the curtains. 

All the details of my physical training were 
settled by my grandmother. I was not allowed 
to be rocked, and was swathed in a new way, with 
the feet left bare. I used to be bathed first in 
warm then in cold water. My clothes, too, were 
of a peculiar kind; none of my garments had any 
seams or fasteners, and were slipped straight over 
my head. As soon as I was able to crawl, I was 
put upon the carpet and left to my own devices. 
I was told that in the early days my grandmother 
used frequently to sit down beside me on the 
carpet and play with me. But I have no recollec- 
tion of it, neither do I remember my nurse. 

She was the wife of a gardener at Tsarskoye 



206 FEDOR KUSMICH 

Selo, and was called Avdotia Petrova. I saw her 
again in the garden at Tsarskoye when I was 
eighteen years old — she came up and told me 
who she was. It was at the best time of my life, 
during my first friendship with Chartorisky, when 
I was filled with disgust at what went on at the 
two courts — my poor unfortunate father's and my 
grandmother's. She had made me hate her at 
that time. I was still a man then, and not a bad 
man, full of good intentions. I was walking in the 
garden with Chartorisky, when a neatly-dressed 
woman came out of one of the side avenues. Her 
rosy face, wreathed in smiles, was wonderfully 
kind and pleasant. She came up to me excitedly, 
and falling down on her knees, seized my hand 
and began kissing it. 

" Who are you?" I asked. 

" Your Highness ! Your Highness I Heaven 
be praised that I see you again! " 

" I was your foster-mother, Avdotia Dunyasha. 
I nursed you for eleven months. Thank the Lord 
for this meeting with you ! " 

I raised her with difficulty, asked where she 
lived, and promised to go and see her. 

The charming interior of her tiny cottage, her 
sweet daughter, my foster-sister, a perfect Russian 
beauty, who was engaged to the court riding- 
master, her husband the gardener, just as smiling 
as his wife, and their group of little children, all 



FEDOR KUSMICH 207 

seemed to light up the darkness surrounding 
me. 

"This is real life, real happiness! " I thought. 
"How simple it all is, how clear! No envies, 
intrigues, quarrels! " 

This beloved Dunyasha was my foster-mother. 
My head nurse was a certain Sophia Ivanovna 
Benkendorf, a German; my second nurse was a 
Miss Hessler, an Englishwoman. Sophia Ivan- 
ovna Benkendorf was a tall, stout woman, with 
a pale complexion and straight nose. She had 
a majestic bearing when in the nursery, but was 
marvellously small and servile when in the pres- 
ence of my grandmother, who was about a head 
shorter than herself. She was obsequious and 
severe with me at the same time. At one moment 
she was a queen in her broad skirts and with her 
haughty countenance; at another she was a cring- 
ing, hypocritical serving-maid. Praskovia Ivan- 
ovna Hessler was a long-faced, red-haired, serious 
Englishwoman, but when she smiled, her face 
shone with radiance, so that it was impossible to 
keep from smiling with her. I liked her sense of 
order, her cleanliness, her kindness, and her firm- 
ness. She seemed to be possessed of some mys- 
terious knowledge of which neither my mother nor 
even grandmother herself were aware. 

■I remember my mother at that time as some 
supernaturally beautiful vision, mysterious and 



208 FEDOR KUSMICH 

sad, gorgeously dressed in silks and laces, and 
glittering with diamonds. She would come into 
my room with her bare round white arms and a 
curiously aloof expression on her face which I did 
not understand. She would caress me, take me up 
in those lovely arms of hers, raise me to her still 
more lovely face, and, shaking back her beautiful 
thick hair, would kiss me and begin to cry. On 
one occasion she let me drop out of her arms as 
she fell to the floor senseless. 

Strange to say, I had no sort of love for my 
mother. Whether it was due to her attitude 
towards me, or to my grandmother's influence, or 
because I was able by my childish instinct to see 
through all the court intrigues centring round me, 
I am unable to say. There used to be something 
strained about her manner towards me. She was 
not really interested in me, but seemed to be dis- 
playing me for some end, and I was conscious of 
this. I was not mistaken, as I learnt later. 

My grandmother took me away from my par- 
ents and brought me up entirely herself. She in- 
tended placing me on the throne instead of my 
poor unfortunate father, her son, whom she hated. 
Needless to say, I knew nothing of this at the time, 
but as soon as I began to notice things I felt my- 
self to be an object of enmity and rivalry, the play- 
thing of conspirators, without knowing the why 



FEDOR KUSMICH 209 

or wherefore. I was conscious of every one's 
utter indifference to me — to my childish heart, 
that had no need of a crown but rather of love, 
of which I knew nothing. There was my mother, 
who was always depressed when she saw me. On 
one occasion she was talking to Sophia Ivanovna 
in German, when she heard my grandmother com- 
ing; she suddenly burst into tears and ran out of 
the room. There was my father, who sometimes 
came to see us and whom we sometimes went to 
see. This poor unfortunate father of mine 
showed even greater displeasure on seeing me than 
my mother. His v/hole bearing towards me was 
one of restrained anger. I remember on one 
occasion how we were taken to their apartments 
before they set out for their travels abroad in 
178 1. I happened to be standing next to him, 
when he suddenly thrust me away, jumped up 
from his chair with flashing eyes, and gasped out 
something concerning me and my grandmother. 
I cannot recall all that he said, but the .Words 
apres 62 tout est possible have remained in my 
memory. I remember how I got frightened and 
burst into tears. My mother took me up in her 
arms and kissed me, then carried me over to him. 
He gave me his blessing hurriedly and rushed 
out of the room, his high heels clattering as he 
went 



210 FEDOR KUSMICH 

It was not until long after that I understood 
the meaning of this outburst. They set out for 
their travels under the name of Comte et Comtesse 
du Nord. It was my grandmother's idea that 
they should go. My father was afraid that in his 
absence he would be deprived of the right to the 
throne and that I should be acknowledged as his 
successor. Good God! he prized that which 
ruined us both — ruined us bodily and spiritually, 
and I, unfortunate man, prized it no less than he! 

I hear some one knocking at the door and 
chanting a prayer in the name of Father and Son. 
Amen. I must put away my papers and go and 
see who it is. With God's grace I will continue 
to-morrow. 



Ill 



December 13. 

Last night I slept very little and had bad dreams. 
I thought that an unpleasant, sickly-looking woman 
was pressing herself close against me and I was not 
afraid of her, nor of the sin, but afraid that my 
wife should see us. I did not want to hear her 
reproaches again. I am seventy-two years old 
and am not yet free. In a waking state it is pos- 
sible to deceive yourself, but in dreams you get a 



FEDOR KUSMICH 211 

true estimate of the plane that you have reached. 
I had a second dream which gave me another 
proof of my low moral condition. I thought that 
some one had brought me some sweets wrapped 
up in green moss. We unpacked them and divided 
them between us, leaving a few over. I still went 
on selecting some for myself, when suddenly I 
caught sight of an unpleasant-looking, dark-col- 
oured boy, a son of the Sultan, stretching his arm 
towards me and trying to clutch them. I pushed 
him away rudely, though I knew quite well that it 
was far more natural for a child to eat sweets 
than for me, but I was angry with him and would 
not give him any and was conscious at the same 
time that it was mean. 

A similar thing happened to me when I was 
awake. I had a visit from Maria Martemen- 
ovna; a messenger called yesterday to ask if she 
might come. I did not like to hurt her feelings, 
so I consented, but I find these visits extremely 
trying. She came to-day. I could hear the sound 
of her sledge over the crisp snow when she was 
still some way off. She arrived in her fur coat 
and shawls, laden with packages she had brought 
for me, letting in so much cold that I was obliged 
to put on my dressing-gown. She had brought me 
pancakes, lenten oil, and apples. She had come, 
to consult me about her daughter, whom a rich 



2i2 FEDOR KUSMICH 

widower wished to marry, and wanted to know if 
she was to give her consent. Their tremendous 
opinion of my wisdom is extremely annoying to 
me. All my protestations to the contrary they 
invariably put down to my humility. I repeated 
to her what I had said many times before, that 
chastity is higher than marriage, but that the Apos- 
tle Paul says it is better to marry than be the 
slave of passion. 

Her brother-in-law Nikanor Ivanov was with 
her. He had once asked me to settle in his house, 
and has never since ceased worrying me with his 
visits. Nikanor Ivanov is a great trial to me. I 
can never overcome my aversion of him. Help 
me, O Lord, to see my own sins that I may not 
judge my brother. All his shortcomings are 
known to me. I see through them with a ma- 
licious shrewdness. I am conscious of his weak- 
nesses and cannot conquer my dislike of him — 
and he is my brother, with the same divine element 
in him that is in me. What do these aversions 
mean! It is not my first experience of them. 
The two strongest antipathies I ever felt in my 
life were against Louis XVIII. , with his corpulent 
body, hook nose, irritating white hands; his con- 
ceit, insolence, and utter stupidity . . . (there! 
I cannot keep from abusing him). The other 
was against Nikanor Ivanov, who tormented me 



FEDOR KUSMICH 213 

for two whole hours yesterday. Everything about 
him, from his voice, his hair, to his very nails was 
repulsive to me. I pretended to be unwell in or- 
der to account for my depression to Maria Marte- 
menovna. After they had gone I said my prayers 
and grew calmer. I thank Thee, O Lord, for the 
power Thou hast granted me over the only thing 
that is necessary to me. I tried to remember that 
Nikanor Ivanov was once an innocent child and 
that he will come to die like the rest of us. I 
tried to think kindly of Louis XVIIL, who was 
dead. I felt sorry that Nikanor Ivanov was not 
there that I might show him how kindly disposed 
I felt towards him. 

Maria Martemenovna brought me a quantity 
of candles so that I shall be able to write at night. 

I have just been out. To the left the stars had 
already merged into the glorious light of the au- 
rora borealis. How beautiful ! How beautiful ! 
I must continue. 

My father and mother started on their travels 
abroad and my brother Constantine and I were 
left in the entire charge of our grandmother. My 
brother, who was born two years later than I, 
had been christened Constantine in the hope that 
he would one day become the Emperor of Con- 
stantinople. 



214 FEDOR KUSMICH 

Children readily grow fond of people, especially 
of those who are kind to them. My grandmother 
was very nice to me, made much of me, and I 
loved her in spite of an extremely repellant odour 
that always seemed to hang ^bout her. The strin- 
gent scents could not disguise this odour — I used 
to notice it particularly when I sat upon her knee. 
I was still more repelled by her clean yellowish 
hands covered with wrinkles, so shiny and slip- 
pery, the fingers bending over, and the nails un- 
naturally long. Her languid, lustreless eyes, that 
seemed almost dead, and the smile playing about 
her toothless mouth, produced an oppressive 
though not altogether unpleasant effect on those 
who saw her. I believed at that time that the 
languid expression of her eyes was due to the enor- 
mous pains she took over her toilet. At any rate 
I was told so. I felt sorry for her then, but now 
I think of it with disgust. 

I had seen Potemkin once or twice. This 
huge, greasy, one-eyed monster was terrible. 

The thing that awed me most about him, though 
he used to play with me and call me your High- 
ness, was the fact that he never seemed afraid of 
my grandmother, like other people, but would 
speak boldly in her presence in his gruff, bellow- 
ing voice. 

Another man whom I frequently saw in her 



FEDOR KUSMICH 215 

company was Lanskoy. He was nearly always 
with her. The whole Court hovered about him 
and made much of him. Needless to say I did 
not understand who Lanskoy was at the time, and 
liked him. I was attracted by his curly hair, his 
shapely legs in tight elk-skin breeches, his happy, 
light-hearted smile, his diamonds and jewels, glit- 
tering all over him. 

It was a time full of gaieties. We were taken 
to Tsarskoye Selo, we rowed on the river, we 
busied ourselves in the garden, we went out walk- 
ing and riding. Constantine, a chubby, red- 
haired little boy, nn petit Bacchus as grandmother 
used to call him, kept us amused with his lively 
fun. He used to mimic everybody, including 
Sophia Ivanovna and even grandmother herself. 
One event of that time impressed itself on my 
memory. This was the death of Sophia Ivanovna 
Benkendorf. She died one evening at Tsarskoye 
in grandmother's presence. Sophia Ivanovna had 
just brought us in to her and was talking and smil- 
ing, and suddenly her face changed, she reeled, 
leaned up against the door for support, and fell 
down senseless. People came running in and we 
were taken away. The next day we heard that 
she was dead. I cried very much, felt very mis- 
erable, and would not be comforted. They all 
thought that I was grieved about Sophia Ivanovna, 



216 FEDOR KUSMICH 

but that was not true. I cried at the thought 
that people should have to die ; that there should 
be such a thing as death in the world. I could 
not comprehend, could not believe, that it was 
the inevitable fate of all men. I remember how, 
in my five-year-old soul, there rose up questions 
about the meaning of death and the meaning of 
life that ends in death. Those vital questions 
confronting all men, to which the wise have tried 
to seek an answer in vain, and the foolish have 
tried to ignore and forget. As is natural to a 
child, particularly one in my position, I dismissed 
the terrifying idea of death from my mind; for- 
got about it as if it did not exist. 

Another important event of that time which 
came as a consequence of Sophia Ivanovna's death, 
was that we passed over into the charge of a tutor. 
He was Nicolai Ivanovich Saltikov — not the 
Saltikov who, in all probability, was our grand- 
father, but Nicolai Ivanovich, who had been at- 
tached to my father's Court. He was a little 
man, with an enormous head and a stupid-looking 
countenance, on which there was a constant grim- 
ace. Constantine used to imitate it beautifully. 
This change necessitated parting with my dear 
Praskovia Ivanovna, my old nurse. 

Those who have not had the misfortune of be- 
ing born in a royal house can hardly imagine the 



FEDOR KUSMICH 217 

distorted view we have of people, nor our false 
attitude towards them. Instead of being instilled 
with a sense of dependence on our elders natural 
to children, or with a sense of gratitude for all the 
good we enjoyed, we were made to believe that 
we were some kind of superior beings whose every 
wish must be gratified. Beings who, by a single 
word or smile, not only paid for all the kindness 
showered upon them, but were even conferring 
some sort of favour, making others happy. 

It is true that politeness was expected of us; 
but by a peculiar childish instinct, I soon saw that 
we were not meant to be polite for the benefit of 
others, but merely so as to enhance our own 
grandeur. 

I remember one festive day. My brother, 
Saltikov and I were driving along the Nevsky. 
We sat on the front seat, with two powdered foot- 
men in red livery standing behind. It was a 
beautiful day. Constantine and I were dressed 
in uniforms, unbuttoned in front, exposing our 
white waistcoats, on which lay the order of St. 
Andrew. We wore hats with feathers, which we 
kept raising all the time to people greeting us. 
The crowd stared and cheered, and ran after us — 
11 On vous salue" Nicolai Ivanovich kept on say- 
ing, " A droite." As we passed the guardhouse 
the sentinels came running out to have a look at us. 



2i8 FEDOR KUSMICH 

I always liked to see them. From my earliest 
childhood I had a passion for soldiers and military 
manoeuvres. 

It was always instilled into us, particularly by 
our grandmother, who believed it least of all, that 
we must always bear in mind that all men are 
equal. But I knew somehow that those who 
talked about equality did not believe in it. 

Once when I was playing with Sasha Galitsin, 
he pushed me accidentally, and hurt me. 

II How dare you ! " I cried. 

II I didn't mean it. It's all right!" 

I was so outraged that my blood rushed to my 
heart. I complained to Nicolai Ivanovich, and 
was not ashamed when Galitsin was made to apol- 
ogise. 

Enough for to-day. My candle is nearly out, 
and I must break up some fagots. My axe is 
blunt, and I have nothing to sharpen it on. Be- 
sides, I don't know how to do it. 



IV 



December 17. 

I Have not written anything for the last three 
days, because I have not been very well. I tried 
to read the Testament, but could not bring myself 



FEDOR KUSMICH 219 

to that understanding of it, that communion with 
God that I formerly experienced. I used to think 
at one time that it was impossible for man to live 
without desire. I was always in a state of desire 
for something or other, and am not free from it 
now. At one time I desired to conquer Napoleon; 
I desired to be Europe's peacemaker; I desired 
to free myself of my crown; but all these desires, 
whether fulfilled, or unfulfilled, soon ceased to 
attract me, and gave place to new ones. So it 
went on without end. Recently I longed for win- 
ter to come — winter has come. I longed for sol- 
itude, and have almost attained it. Now I want 
to write the story of my life so that it may be a 
warning to others, but whether I accomplish it or 
not, new desires will spring up just the same. If 
life is nothing more than the begetting of desire, 
and happiness the fulfilment of desire, then is 
there not some sort of desire fundamental to every 
man that would always be fulfilled, or that would 
be possible of fulfilment? It became clear to me 
that such a desire must be death. The whole of 
life would then become a preparation for the ful- 
filment of this desire, and would inevitably be 
fulfilled. 

The idea seemed strange to me at first, but 
meditating on it further, I was convinced that the 
only thing a wise man could wish for was death. 



220 FEDOR KUSMICH 

Not death for its own sake, but for that stream of 
life leading from it. It would free the spiritual 
nature inherent in every man from all passions 
and temptations. I see this now, having been 
freed from the worst of that darkness that ob- 
scured my own soul from me, not letting me see 
its oneness with God — nay, that obscured God 
Himself. The idea came to me unconsciously. 

If I really believed that my highest good was to 
be delivered from passion and to be united with 
God, then I ought to welcome everything that 
brought me nearer death, such as old age and 
sickness. It would in a sense be a fulfilment of 
my one and only desire. I see this clearly when 
I am well, but when I am ill, as I have been for 
the last two days, I cannot see it in the same light, 
and though I do not rebel against death, yet do 
not long for its approach. This is a condition of 
spiritual inertia. I must be patient. 

I will go on from where I left off yesterday. 

Most of the things I have related about my 
childhood I have heard from others. Frequently 
the things that have been told me and my own 
impressions get mixed up one with another, so that 
I am sometimes unable to distinguish between the 
two. 

The whole of my life from the very moment of 
my birth until my present old age, makes me think 
of a plain enveloped in a thick fog. Everything 



FEDOR KUSMICH 221 

is hidden from view, when all at once the mist 
lifts itself in places, disclosing tiny little islands 
des eclair cies on which people and objects can be 
distinguished, quite disconnected with one another, 
surrounded by an impenetrable veil of mist. 

In my childhood these eclaircies appeared very 
rarely in the interminable sea of fog and smoke 
surrounding me. As I grew older I could see 
them more often, but even now there are periods 
of my life that have left no trace on my memory. 
I have already given some of the events of my 
early childhood that have most impressed them- 
selves on my mind, the death of Sophia Benken- 
dorf, the parting scene with my parents, my lively 
brother Constantine, and there are other reminis- 
cences that come crowding back as I think of the 
past. But, for instance, I have no recollection of 
when Constantine first appeared, nor when we 
came to live together, but I do remember one 
Christmas Eve when he was five and I was seven 
years old. It was after the midnight service when 
they put us to bed. We both got together as soon 
as we were left alone. Constantine, with nothing 
on but a nightshirt, climbed into my bed, and we 
began a lively game which consisted in slapping 
each other on our naked bodies. We laughed un- 
til our sides ached, and were feeling ever so happy, 
when suddenly Nicolai Ivanovich came into the 



222 FEDOR KUSMICH 

room with his enormous powdered head, and in 
an embroidered coat. He was horror-stricken 
on catching sight of us, and flew at us in a perfect 
state of terror that I have never been able to 
fathom. He put Constantine back in his own 
bed, threatened to punish us and to tell our grand- 
mother. 

Another thing that impressed itself on my mem- 
ory occurred somewhat later, when I was about 
nine. It was the quarrel between Alexei Gregori- 
evich Orlov and Potenkin, which took place in my 
grandmother's room in our presence. It happened 
a short time before our departure for the Crimea 
and our first visit to Moscow. Nicolai Ivanovich 
had taken us to see grandmother as usual. The 
large room with a carved and painted ceiling was 
full of people. My grandmother was sitting be- 
fore a golden dressing-table, in a white dressing- 
jacket, surrounded by her maids, who were put- 
ting the finishing touches to her hair. It was 
tastefully dressed on the top of her head. She 
smiled on seeing us, and went on talking to a gen- 
eral decorated with the order of St. Andrew. He 
was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a terrible 
scar across his cheek from the mouth to the ear. 
It was Orlov, le Balafre. I had never seen him 
before. 
My favourite little dog, Michot, sprang from 



FEDOR KUSMICH 223 

the foot of grandmother's dress, and began paw- 
ing me and licking my face. We came up to 
grandmother and kissed her plump yellow hand. 
She put it under my chin, and began to caress me 
with her bent fingers. In spite of her perfumes, I 
felt that unpleasant odour about her. She con- 
tinued talking to the Balafre. " Is he not a fine 
fellow? M she said, pointing to me. " You haven't 
seen him before, have you, Count? " 

" They are both fine fellows," the Count replied, 
kissing our hands in turn. 

"All right, all right!" she said to the maid, 
who was arranging a cap on her head. It was 
dear Marie Stepanovna, powdered and painted, 
who was always kind to me. 

Lanskoy came up with an open snuff-box. 
Grandmother took some snuff, and smiled as she 
caught sight of Matriona Denisovna, her jester, 
who was just coming in 

(Here the papers break off,) 



MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 



MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC. 

This morning I underwent a medical examina- 
tion in the government council room. The opin- 
ions of the doctors were divided. They argued 
among themselves and came at last to the con- 
clusion that I was not mad. But this was due to 
the fact that I tried hard during the examination 
not to give myself away. I was afraid of being 
sent to the lunatic asylum, where I would not be 
able to go on with the mad undertaking I have on 
my hands. They pronounced me subject to fits of 
excitement, and something else, too, but never- 
theless of sound mind. The doctor prescribed a 
certain treatment, and assured me that by follow- 
ing his directions my trouble would completely 
disappear. Imagine, all that torments me dis- 
appearing completely! Oh, there is nothing I 
would not give to be free from my trouble. The 
suffering is too great I 

I am going to tell explicitly how I came to un- 
dergo that examination; how I went mad, and 
how my madness was revealed to the outside 
world. 

227 



228 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 

Up to the age of thirty-five I lived like the 
rest of the world, and nobody had noticed any 
peculiarities in me. Only in my early childhood, 
before I was ten, I had occasionally been in a men- 
tal state similar to the present one, and then only 
at intervals, whereas now I am continually con- 
scious of it. 

I remember going to bed one evening, when I 
was a child of five or six. Nurse Euprasia, a tall, 
lean woman in a brown dress, with a double chin, 
was undressing me, and was just lifting me up to 
put me into bed. 

" I will get into bed myself," I said, preparing 
to step over the net at the bedside. 

" Lie down, Fedinka. You see, Mitinka is al- 
ready lying quite still," she said, pointing with 
her head to my brother in his bed. 

I jumped into my bed still holding nurse's hand 
in mine. Then I let it go, stretched my legs under 
the blanket and wrapped myself up. I felt so nice 
and warm ! I grew silent all of a sudden and 
began thinking: "I love nurse, nurse loves me 
and Mitinka, I love Mitinka too, and he loves me 
and nurse. And nurse loves Taras; I love Taras 
too, and so does Mitinka. And Taras loves me 
and nurse. And mother loves me and nurse; 
nurse loves mother and me and father; everybody 
loves everybody, and everybody is happy." 



MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 229 

Suddenly the housekeeper rushed in and began 
to shout in an angry voice something about a sugar 
basin she could not find. Nurse got cross and 
said she did not take it. I felt frightened; it was 
all so strange. A cold horror came over me, and 
I hid myself under the blanket. But I felt no 
better in the darkness under the blanket. I 
thought of a boy who had got a thrashing one day 
in my presence — of his screams, and of the cruel 
face of Foka when he was beating the boy. 

" Then you won't do it any more; you won't! " 
he repeated and went on beating. 

"I won't," said the boy; and Foka kept on 
repeating over and over, " You won't, you 
won't ! " and did not cease to strike the boy. 

That was when my madness came over me for 
the first time. I burst into sobs, and they could 
not quiet me for a long while. The tears and 
despair of that day were the first signs of my 
present trouble. 

I well remember the second time my madness 
seized me. It was when aunt was telling us about 
Christ. She told His story and got up to leave 
the room. But we held her back: " Tell us 
more about Jesus Christ! " we said. 

" I must go," she replied. 

" No, tell us more, please ! " Mitinka insisted, 
and she repeated all she had said before. She 



B3o MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 

told us how they crucified Him, how they beat and 
martyred Him, and how He went on praying and 
did not blame them. 

" Auntie, why did they torture Him? " 

" They were wicked." 

"But wasn't He God?" 

"Be still — it is nine o'clock, don't you hear 
the clock striking? " 

" Why did they beat Him? He had forgiven 
them. Then why did they hit Him? Did it 
hurt Him? Auntie, did it hurt? " 

" Be quiet, I say. I am going to the dining- 
room to have tea now." 

" But perhaps it never happened, perhaps He 
was not beaten by them? " 

" I am going." 

" No, Auntie, don't go ! . . ." And again my 
madness took possession of me. I sobbed and 
sobbed, and began knocking my head against the 
wall. 

Such had been the fits of madness in my child- 
hood. But after I was fourteen, from the time 
the instincts of sex awoke and I began to give way 
to vice, my madness seemed to have passed, and 
I was a boy like other boys. Just as happens 
with all of us who are brought up on rich, over- 
abundant food, and are spoiled and made effemi- 



MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 231 

nate, because we never do any physical work, and 
are surrounded by all possible temptations, which 
excite our sensual nature when in the company of 
other children similarly spoiled, so I had been 
taught vice by other boys of my age and I in- 
dulged in it. As time passed other vices came to 
take the place of the first. I began to know 
women, and so I went on living, up to the time I 
was thirty-five, looking out for all kinds of pleas- 
ures and enjoying them. I had a perfectly sound 
mind then, and never a sign of madness. Those 
twenty years of my normal life passed without 
leaving any special record on my memory, and now 
it is only with a great effort of mind and with utter 
disgust, that I can concentrate my thoughts 
upon that time. 

Like all the boys of my set, who were of sound 
mind, I entered school, passed on to the university 
and went through a course of law studies. Then 
I entered the State service for a short time, mar- 
ried, and settled down in the country, educating — 
if our way of bringing up children can be called 
educating — my children, looking after the land, 
and filling the post of a Justice of the Peace. 

It was when I had been married ten years that 
one of those attacks of madness I suffered from in 
my childhood made its appearance again. My 
wife and I had saved up money from her inherit- 



232 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 

ance and from some Government bonds* of mine 
which I had sold, and we decided that with that 
money we would buy another estate. I was natu- 
rally keen to increase our fortune, and to do it 
in the shrewdest way, better than any one else 
would manage it. I went about inquiring what 
estates were to be sold, and used to read all the 
advertisements in the papers. What I wanted was 
to buy an estate, the produce or timber of which 
would cover the cost of purchase, and then I would 
have the estate practically for nothing. I was 
looking out for a fool who did not understand 
business, and there came a day when I thought I 
had found one. An estate with large forests at- 
tached to it was to be sold in the Pensa Govern- 
ment. To judge by the information I had re- 
ceived the proprietor of that estate was exactly 
the imbecile I wanted, and I might expect the for- 
ests to cover the price asked for the whole estate. 
I got my things ready and was soon on my way 
to the estate I wished to inspect. 

We had first to go by train (I had taken my 
man-servant with me), then by coach, with relays 

* These government bonds were of a peculiar kind: At the 
moment of the abolition of serfdom, the Russian Government 
handed to the owners of serfs State bonds instead of money, 
called in Russia " the redemption bonds." The money due by 
the Government on those papers were paid off at fixed periods — 
and the owners of those bonds sold them often like ordinary 
Government papers. 



MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 233 

of horses at the various stations. The journey- 
was very pleasant, and my servant, a good-natured 
youth, liked it as much as I did. We enjoyed the 
new surroundings and the new people, and having 
now only about two hundred miles more to drive, 
we decided to go on without stopping, except to 
change horses at the stations. Night came on 
and we were still driving. I had been dozing, but 
presently I awoke, seized with a sudden fear. 
As often happens in such a case, I was so excited 
that I was thoroughly awake and it seemed as if 
sleep were gone for ever. " Why am I driving? 
Where am I going?" I suddenly asked myself. 
It was not that I disliked the idea of buying an 
estate at a bargain, but it seemed at that moment 
so senseless to journey to such a far away place, 
and I had a feeling as if I were going to die there, 
away from home. I was overcome with horror. 

My servant Sergius awoke, and I took advan- 
tage of the fact to talk to him. I began to remark 
upon the scenery around us; he had also a good 
deal to say, of the people at home, of the pleasure 
of the journey, and it seemed strange to me that 
he could talk so gaily. He appeared so pleased 
with everything and in such good spirits, whereas 
I was annoyed with it all. Still, I felt more at 
ease when I was talking with him. Along with 
my feelings of restlessness and my secret horror, 



2 3 4 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 

however, I was fatigued as well, and longed to 
break the journey somewhere. It seemed to me 
my uneasiness would cease if I could only enter a 
room, have tea, and, what I desired most of all, 
sleep. 

We were approaching the town Arzamas. 

11 Don't you think we had better stop here and 
have a rest? M 

" Why not? It's an excellent idea." 

" How far are we from the town? " I asked the 
driver. 

"Another seven miles." 

The driver was a quiet, silent man. He was 
driving rather slowly and wearily. 

We drove on. I was silent, but I felt better, 
looking forward to a rest and hoping to feel the 
better for it. We drove on and on in the dark- 
ness, and the seven miles seemed to have no end. 
At last we reached the town. It was sound asleep 
at that early hour. First came the small houses, 
piercing the darkness, and as we passed them, the 
noise of our jingling bells and the trotting of our 
horses sounded louder. In a few places the 
houses were large and white, but I did not feel 
less dejected for seeing them. I was waiting for 
the station, and the samovar, and longed to lie 
down and rest. 

At last we approached a house with pillars in 



MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 235 

front of it. The house was white, but it seemed 
to me very melancholy, I felt even frightened at 
its aspect and stepped slowly out of the carriage. 
Sergius was busying himself with our luggage, 
taking what we needed for the night, running 
about and stepping heavily on the doorsteps. The 
sound of his brisk tread increased my weariness. 
I walked in and came into a small passage. A 
man received us; he had a large spot on his cheek 
and that spot filled me with horror. He asked us 
into a room which was just an ordinary room. 
My uneasiness was growing. 

" Could we have a room to rest in? " I asked. 

" Oh, yes, I have a very nice bedroom at your 
disposal. A square room, newly whitewashed." 

The fact of the little room being square was — 1 
I remember it so well — most painful to me. It 
had one window with a red curtain, a table of 
birchwood and a sofa with a curved back and 
arms. Sergius boiled the water in the samovar 
and made the tea. I put a pillow on the sofa in 
the meantime and lay down. I was not asleep ; I 
heard Sergius busy with the samovar and urging 
me to have tea. I was afraid to get up from the 
sofa, afraid of driving away sleep; and just to be 
sitting in that room seemed awful. I did not get 
up, but fell into a sort of doze. When I started 
up out of it, nobody was in the room and it was 



236 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 

quite dark. I woke up with the very same sensa- 
tion I had the first time and knew sleep was gone. 
" Why am I here? Where am I going? Just as 
I am I must be for ever. Neither the Pensa nor 
any other estate will add to or take anything away 
from me. As for me, I am unbearably weary of 
myself. I want to go to sleep, to forget — and I 
cannot, I cannot get rid of self." 

I went out into the passage. Sergius was sleep- 
ing there on a narrow bench, his hand hanging 
down beside it. He was sleeping soundly, and 
the man with the spot on his cheek was also asleep. 
I thought, by going out of the room, to get away 
from what was tormenting me. But it followed 
me and made everything seem dark and dreary. 
My feeling of horror, instead of leaving me, was 
increasing. 

"What nonsense! " I said to myself. "Why 
am I so dejected? What am I afraid of?" 
" You are afraid of me " — I heard the voice of 
Death — " I am here." 

I shuddered. Yes, — Death ! Death will come, 
it will come and it ought not to come. Even in 
facing actual death I would certainly not feel any- 
thing of what I felt now. Then it would be simply 
fear, whereas now it was more than that. I was 
actually seeing, feeling the approach of death, and 
along with it I felt that death ought not to exist. 



MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 237 

My entire being was conscious of the necessity 
of the right to live, and at the same time of the 
inevitability of dying. This inner conflict was 
causing me unbearable pain. I tried to shake off 
the horror; I found a half-burnt candle in a brass 
candlestick and lighted it. The candle with its red 
flame burnt down until it was not much taller than 
the low candlestick. The same thing seemed to 
be repeated over and over: nothing lasts, life is 
not, all is death — but death ought not to exist. 
I tried to turn my thoughts to what had interested 
me before, to the estate I was to buy and to my 
wife. Far from being a relief, these seemed noth- 
ing to me now. To feel my life doomed to be 
taken from me was a terror shutting out any other 
thought. " I must try to sleep," I decided. I 
went to bed, but the next instant I jumped up, 
seized with horror. A sickness overcame me, a 
spiritual sickness not unlike the physical uneasi- 
ness preceding actual illness — but in the spirit, 
not in the body. A terrible fear similar to the 
fear of death, when mingled with the recollec- 
tions of my past life, developed into a horror 
as if life were departing. Life and death were 
flowing into one another. An unknown power 
was trying to tear my soul into pieces, but could 
not rend it. Once more I went out into the 
passage to look at the two men asleep; once more 



2 3 8 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 

I tried to go to sleep. The horror was always the 
same — now red, now white and square. Some- 
thing was tearing within but could not be torn 
apart. A torturing sensation! An arid hatred 
deprived me of every spark of kindly feeling. 
Just a dull and steady hatred against myself and 
against that which had created me. What did 
create me? God? We say God. . . • "What 
if I tried to pray?" I suddenly thought. I had 
not said a prayer for more than twenty years and 
I had no religious sentiment, although just for 
formality's sake I fasted and partook of the com- 
munion every year. I began saying prayers: 
14 God, forgive me," " Our Father," " Our Lady," 
I was composing new prayers, crossing myself, 
bowing to the earth, looking around me all the 
while for fear I might be discovered in my de- 
votional attitude. The prayers seemed to divert 
my thoughts from the previous terror, but it was 
more the fear of being seen by somebody that did 
it. I went to bed again. But the moment I shut 
my eyes the very same feeling of terror made me 
jump up. I could not stand it any longer. I 
called the hotel servant, roused Sergius from his 
sleep, ordered him to harness the horses to the 
carriage and we were soon driving on once more. 
The open air and the drive made me feel much 
better. But I realised that something new had 



MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 239 

come into my soul, and had poisoned the life I had 
lived up to that hour. 

We reached our destination in the evening. 
The whole day long I remained struggling with 
despair, and finally conquered it; but a horror re- 
mained in the depth of my soul. It was as if a 
misfortune had happened to me, and although 
I was able to forget it for a while, it remained at 
the bottom of my soul, and I was entirely domi- 
nated by it. 

The manager of the estate, an old man, received 
us in a very friendly manner, though not exactly 
with great joy; he was sorry that the estate was to 
be sold. The clean little rooms with upholstered 
furniture, a new, shining samovar on the tea-table, 
nice large cups, honey served with the tea, — every- 
thing was pleasant to see. I began questioning 
him about the estate without any interest, as if I 
were repeating a lesson learned long ago and 
nearly forgotten. It was so uninteresting. But 
that night I was able to go to sleep without feel- 
ing miserable. I thought this was due to having 
said my prayers again before going to bed. 

After that incident I resumed my ordinary life; 
but the apprehension that this horror would again 
come upon me was continual. I had to live my 
usual life without any respite, not giving way to 
my thoughts, just like a schoolboy who repeats 



2 4 o MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 

by habit and without thinking the lesson learned 
by heart. That was the only way to avoid being 
seized again by the horror and the despair I had 
experienced in Arzamas. 

I had returned home safe from my journey; I 
had not bought the estate ■ — ■ I had not enough 
money. My life at home seemed to be just as 
it had always been, save for my having taken to 
saying prayers and to going to church. But 
now, when I recollect that time, I see that I only 
imagined my life to be the same as before. The 
fact was I merely continued what I had previously 
started, and was running with the same speed on 
rails already laid; but I did not undertake any- 
thing new. 

Even in those things which I had already taken 
in hand my interest had diminished. I was tired 
of everything, and was growing very religious. 
My wife noticed this, and was often vexed with 
me for it. No new fit of distress occurred while 
I was at home. But one day I had to go unex- 
pectedly to Moscow, where a lawsuit was pending. 
In the train I entered into conversation with a land- 
owner from Kharkov. We were talking about the 
management of estates, about bank business, about 
the hotels in Moscow, and the theatres. We both 
decided to stop at the " Moscow Court," in the 
Miasnizkaia Street, and go that evening to the 



MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 241 

opera, to Faust. When we arrived I was shown 
into a small room, the heavy smell of the passage 
being still in my nostrils. The porter brought in 
my portmanteau, and the maid lighted the candle, 
the flame of which burned up brightly and then 
flickered, as it usually does. In the room next to 
mine I heard somebody coughing, probably an old 
man. The maid went out, and the porter asked 
whether I wished him to open my bag. In the 
meanwhile the candle flame had flared up, throw- 
ing its light on the blue wallpaper with yellow 
stripes, on the partition, on the shabby table, on 
the small sofa in front of it, on the mirror hang- 
ing on the wall, and on the window. I saw what 
the small room was like, and suddenly felt the 
horror of the Arzamas night awakening within 
me. 

11 My God! Must I stay here for the night? 
How can I? " I thought. " Will you kindly un- 
fasten my bag?" I said to the porter, to keep 
him longer in the room. " And now I'll dress 
quickly and go to the theatre," I said to myself. 

When the bag had been untied I said to the 
porter, " Please tell the gentleman in Number 8 
— the one who came with me — that I shall be 
ready presently, and ask him to wait for me." 

The porter left, and I began to dress in haste, 
afraid to look at the walls. " But what non- 



242 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 

sense ! " I said to myself. " Why am I frightened 
like a child? I am not afraid of ghosts — -" 
Ghosts ! — To be afraid of ghosts is nothing to 
what I was afraid of! " But what is it? Abso- 
lutely nothing. I am only afraid of myself. . . . 
Nonsense! " 

I slipped into a cold, rough, starched shirt, stuck 
in the studs, put on evening dress and new boots, 
and went to call for the Kharkov landowner, who 
was ready. We started for the opera house. He 
stopped on the way to have his hair curled, while 
I went to a French hairdresser to have mine cut, 
where I talked a little to the Frenchwoman in the 
shop and bought a pair of gloves. Everything 
seemed all right. I had completely forgotten the 
oblong room in the hotel, and the walls. 

I enjoyed the Faust performance very much, 
and when it was over my companion proposed 
that we should have supper. This was contrary 
to my habits; but just at that moment I remem- 
bered the walls in my room, and accepted. 

We returned home after one. I had two glasses 
of wine — an unusual thing for me — -. in spite of 
which I was feeling quite at ease. 

But the moment we entered the passage with 
the lowered lamp lighting it, the moment I was 
surrounded by the peculiar smell of the hotel, I 
felt a cold shudder of horror running down my 



MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 243 

back. But there was nothing to be done. I shook 
hands with my new friend, and stepped into my 
room. 

I had a frightful night — much worse than the 
night at Arzamas ; and it was not until dawn, when 
the old man in the next room was coughing again, 
that I fell asleep — - and then not in my bed, but, 
after getting in and out of it many times, on the 
sofa. 

I suffered the whole night unbearably. Once 
more my soul and my body were tearing them- 
selves apart within me. The same thoughts came 
again: " I am living, I have lived up till now, I 
have the right to live; but all around me is death 
and destruction. Then why live? Why not die? 
Why not kill myself immediately? No; I could 
not. I am afraid. Is it better to wait for death 
to come when it will ? No, that is even worse ; and 
I am also afraid of that. Then, I must live. But 
what for? In order to die?" I could not get 
out of that circle. I took a book, and began 
reading. For a moment it made me forget my 
thoughts. But then the same questions and the 
same horror came again. I got into bed, lay 
down, and shut my eyes. That made the horror 
worse. God had created things as they are. But 
why? They say, " Don't ask; pray." Well, I 
did pray; I was praying now, just as I did at Arza- 



2 4 4 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 

mas. At that time I had prayed simply, like a 
child. Now my prayers had a definite meaning: 
" If Thou exist, reveal Thy existence to me. To 
what end am I created? What am I? " I was 
bowing to the earth, repeating all the prayers I 
knew, composing new ones; and I was adding each 
time, " Reveal Thy existence to me! " I became 
quiet, waiting for an answer. But no answer 
came, as if there were nothing to answer. I was 
alone, alone with myself and was answering my 
own questions in place of Him who would not 
answer. " What am I created for? " " To live 
in a future life," I answered. " Then why this 
uncertainty and torment? I cannot believe in 
future life. I did believe when I asked, but not 
with my whole soul. Now I cannot, I cannot! 
If Thou didst exist, Thou wouldst reveal it to me, 
to all men. But Thou dost not exist, and there 
is nothing true but distress." But I cannot accept 
that! I rebelled against it; I implored Him to 
reveal His existence to me. I did all that every- 
body does, but He did not reveal Himself to me. 
" Ask, and it shall be given unto you," I remem- 
bered, and began to entreat; in doing so I felt 
no real comfort, but just surcease of despair. Per- 
haps it was not entreaty on my part, but only denial 
of Him. You retreat a step from Him, and He 
goes from you a mile. I did not believe in Him, 



MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 245 

and yet here I was entreating Him. But He did 
not reveal Himself. I was balancing my accounts 
with Him, and was blaming Him. I simply did 
not believe. 

The next day I used all my endeavours to get 
through with my affairs somehow during the day, 
in order to be saved from another night in the 
hotel room. Although I had not finished every- 
thing, I left for home in the evening. 

That night at Moscow brought a still greater 
change into my life, which had been changing ever 
since the night at Arzamas. I was now paying 
less attention to my affairs, and grew more and 
more indifferent to everything around me. My 
health was also getting bad. My wife urged me 
to consult a doctor. To her my continual talk 
about God and religion was a sign of ill-health, 
whereas I knew I was ill and weak, because of the 
unsolved questions of religion and of God. 

I was trying not to let that question dominate 
my mind, and continued living amid the old un- 
altered conditions, filling up my time with incessant 
occupations. On Sundays and feast days I went 
to church; I even fasted as I had begun to do 
since my journey to Pensa, and did not cease to 
pray. I had no faith in my prayers, but somehow 
I kept the demand note in my possession instead 



246 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 

of tearing it up, and was always presenting it for 
payment, although I was aware of the impossibility 
of getting paid. I did it just on the chance. I 
occupied my days, not with the management of 
the estate — I felt disgusted with all business be- 
cause of the struggle it involved — but with the 
reading of papers, magazines, and novels, and with 
card-playing for small stakes. The only outlet 
for my energy was hunting. I had kept that up 
from habit, having been fond of this sport all my 
life. 

One day in winter, a neighbour of mine came 
with his dogs to hunt wolves. Having arrived at 
the meeting-place, we put on snowshoes to walk 
over the snow and move rapidly along. The hunt 
was unsuccessful; the wolves contrived to escape 
through the stockade. As I became aware of 
that from a distance, I took the direction of the 
forest to follow the fresh track of a hare. This 
led me far away into a field. There I spied the 
hare, but he had disappeared before I could fire. 
I turned to go back, and had to pass a forest of 
huge trees. The snow was deep, the snowshoes 
were sinking in, and the branches were entangling 
me. The wood was getting thicker and thicker. 
I wondered where I was, for the snow had 
changed all the familiar places. Suddenly I re- 
alised that I had lost my way. How should I get 



MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 247 

home or reach the hunting party? Not a sound 
to guide me ! I was tired and bathed in perspira- 
tion. If I stopped, I would probably freeze 
to death; if I walked on, my strength would for- 
sake me. I shouted, but all was quiet, and no an- 
swer came. I turned in the opposite direction, 
which was wrong again, and looked round. Noth- 
ing but the wood on every hand. I could not tell 
which was east or west. I turned back again, but 
I could hardly move a step. I was frightened, and 
stopped. The horror I had experienced in Arza- 
mas and in Moscow seized me again, only a hun- 
dred times greater. My heart was beating, my 
hands and feet were shaking. Am I to die here? 
I don't wan't want to! Why death? What is 
death? I was about to ask again, to reproach 
God, when I suddenly felt I must not; I ought not. 
I had not the right to present any account to Him; 
He had said all that was necessary, and the fault 
was wholly mine. I began to implore His forgive- 
ness for I felt disgusted with myself. The horror, 
however, did not last long. I stood still one mo- 
ment, plucked up courage, took the direction which 
seemed to be the right one, and was actually soon 
out of the wood. I had not been far from its edge 
when I lost my way. As I came out on the main 
road, my hands and feet were still shaking, and 
my heart was beating violently. But my soul was 



248 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 

full of joy. I soon found my party, and we all 
returned home together. I was not quite happy, 
but I knew there was a joy within me which I 
would understand later on; and that joy proved 
real. I went to my study to be alone and prayed, 
remembering my sins, and asking for forgiveness. 
They did not seem to be numerous; but when I 
thought of what they were they were hateful to 
me. 

Then I began to read the Scriptures. The Old 
Testament I found incomprehensible but enchant- 
ing, the New touching in its meekness. But my 
favourite reading was now the lives of the saints; 
they were consoling to me, affording examples 
which seemed more and more possible to follow. 
Since that time I have grown even less interested 
in the management of affairs and in family matters. 
These things even became repulsive to me. Ev- 
erything was wrong in my eyes. I did not quite 
realise why they were wrong, but I knew that the 
things of which my whole life had consisted, now 
counted for nothing. This was plainly revealed 
to me again on the occasion of the projected pur- 
chase of an estate, which was for sale in our neigh- 
bourhood on very advantageous terms. I went to 
inspect it. Everything was very satisfactory, the 
more so because the peasants on that estate had no 
land of their own beyond their vegetable gardens. 



MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 249 

I grasped at once that in exchange for the right of 
using the landowner's pasture-grounds, they would 
do all the harvesting for him; and the information 
I was given proved that I was right. I saw how 
important that was, and was pleased, as it was in 
accordance with my old habits of thought. But 
on my way home I met an old woman who asked 
her way, and I entered into a conversation with 
her, during which she told me about her poverty. 
On returning home, when telling my wife about 
the advantages the estate afforded, all at once I 
felt ashamed and disgusted. I said I was not go- 
ing to buy that estate, for its profits were based on 
the sufferings of the peasants. I was struck at 
that moment with the truth of what I was saying, 
the truth of the peasants having the same desire to 
live as ourselves, of their being our equals, our 
brethren, the children of the Father, as the Gospel 
says. But unexpectedly something which had been 
gnawing within me for a long time became loos- 
ened and was torn away, and something new 
seemed to be born instead. 

My wife was vexed with me and abused me. 
But I was full of joy. This was the first sign of 
my madness. My utter madness began to show 
itself about a month later. 

This began by my going to church; I was listen- 
ing to the Mass with great attention and with 



250 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 

a faithful heart, when I was suddenly given a 
wafer; after which every one began to move for- 
ward to kiss the Cross, pushing each other on all 
sides. As I was leaving church, beggars were 
standing on the steps. It became instantly clear 
to me that this ought not to be, and in reality was 
not. But if this is not, then there is no death and 
no fear, and nothing is being torn asunder within 
me, and I am not afraid of any calamity which may 
come. 

At that moment the full light of the truth was 
kindled in me, and I grew into what I am now. 
If all this horror does not necessarily exist around 
me, then it certainly does not exist within me. I 
distributed on the spot all the money I had among 
the beggars in the porch, and walked home instead 
of driving in my carriage as usual, and all the way 
I talked with the peasants. 



TWO WAYFARERS 



TWO WAYFARERS 

Two men with bundles over their shoulders were 
walking along the dusty highroad that lies between 
Moscow and Toula. The younger man wore a 
short coat and velveteen trousers. Spectacles 
gleamed out from under the brim of his new peas- 
ant's hat. The other was a man of about fifty, 
remarkably handsome, dressed in a monk's frock, 
with a leather belt round his waist and a high 
round black cap, such as novices wear in monas- 
teries. His long dark beard and dark hair were 
turning grey. 

The younger man was pale and sallow, was 
covered with dust, and seemed scarcely able to 
drag one foot after the other. The old man 
walked cheerfully along, swinging his arms, his 
shoulders well thrown back. It seemed as though 
dust dared not settle on his handsome face nor his 
body feel fatigue. 

The young man, Serge Vasilievich Borzin, was 
a doctor of science of Moscow University. The 
old man, Nicholas Petrovich Serpov, had been a 
sub-lieutenant in an infantry regiment during the 

253 



254 TWO WAYFARERS 

reign of Alexander, then he had become a monk, 
but was expelled from the monastery for bad con- 
duct. He had, however, retained the monastic 
garb. The men had come together in this wise. 
Borzin, after taking his doctor's degree, and after 
writing several articles for the Moscow reviews, 
went to stay in the country, to plunge into the 
current of peasant life and to refresh himself in 
the waves of the popular stream, as he put it. 
After a month spent in the country in complete 
solitude, he wrote the following letter to a literary 
friend of his. who was editor of a journal: — * 

11 My Master and Friend Ivan Finogeich, 

— It is not for us to predict — indeed we cannot 

— the ultimate solution of those problems which 
are solving themselves in the secrecy of the village 
life of the Russian people. Various phases of the 
Russian mind and its phenomena must be carefully 
taken into consideration — the seclusion of their 
lives ; the revolutionary reforms introduced by Pe- 
ter; etc., etc," 

The long and the short of it was that Borzin, 
having been deeply impressed by the everyday life 
of the people, had become convinced that the prob- 
lem of determining the destiny of the Russian na- 
tion was more difficult and complex than he had 



TWO WAYFARERS 255 

been wont to imagine, and that in order to find its 
solution he must traverse Russia on foot; so he 
asked his friend not to discuss the question in his 
journal pending his return, promising to set forth 
all that he discovered in a series of articles. 

Having written this letter, Borzin set about 
making preparations for his journey. Though it 
annoyed him, he had to consider such details as 
what he should wear. He bought a coat, nailed 
boots, and a hat such as the peasants wear, and, 
shutting out his servants, studied himself for a 
long time in his glass. He could not get rid of 
his spectacles, as he was too near-sighted. After 
this, the most essential thing was to get some 
money. He needed at least 300 roubles. There 
was no money in his cash-box, so Borzin summoned 
his bailiff and accountant and went through his 
books. Finding that he had 180 quarters of 
oats, he ordered them to be sold, but the bailiff 
remarked that the oats had been kept for seed. 
In another column he found an entry of 160 quar- 
ters of rye, and asked if that would suffice for 
seed. The bailiff replied by asking if he wanted 
them to sow last year's rye. The conversation 
ended shortly after, the bailiff recognising that 
Borzin knew as little about farming as a babe, 
and Borzin realising that the rye had been sown 
already, that new seed was usually used, and that 



256 TWO WAYFARERS 

after deducting enough for daily needs from the 
1 80 quarters of corn, the rest might be sold. 

The money having been obtained, Borzin made 
up his mind one evening to start next day, when he 
heard an unknown voice in the hall, and his fath- 
er's old valet Stephen entered and announced 
Nicholas Petrovich Serpov. 

11 Who is he ? " 

" Don't you remember the monk who used to 
visit your father? " 

" No, not at all. What does he want? " 

" He wishes to see you, but I don't think he is 
quite himself." 

Serpov entered the room, bowed, stamped his 
foot and said, — 

" Serpov — > a wayfarer." They shook hands. 
" Nothing but ignorance — no education. I ad- 
monish Russia in vain. Russia is a fool. The 
peasant is industrious but Russia is a fool. Don't 
you agree? I knew your father. We used to sit 
and chat, and he would say, i You will get on.' 
But why are you dressed like that? I am as plain- 
spoken as a soldier, and I ask why? " 

" I am going to make a journey on foot." 

" I am on the road myself. I am a wayfarer. 
I have been all the way to Greece, to the Athos 
Monastery, but I never saw any one as honest as 
our peasants." 



TWO WAYFARERS 257 

Serpov sat down, asked for vodka, and then 
went to bed. Borzin was puzzled. Next day 
Serpov was the listener and, as Borzin liked to 
talk, Serpov heard all about his theory and the aim 
of his journey. Serpov thoroughly approved of 
it, and ended by offering himself as companion, 
which Borzin accepted; partly because he did not 
know how to get rid of him ; partly because, with 
all his craziness, Serpov could flatter; partly, and 
chiefly, because Borzin regarded the monk as a 
remarkable, though somewhat complicated, phe- 
nomenon of Russian life. 

They set out, and when we found them on the 
highroad they were nearing the place, where, ac- 
cording to their plan, the first night was to be 
spent. They had accomplished the first twenty- 
two versts of their journey. 

Serpov had a glass at the public-house and was 
in good spirits. 



KHODINKA: AN INCIDENT OF THE 
CORONATION OF NICHOLAS II. 



KHODINKA*: AN INCIDENT OF THE 
CORONATION OF NICHOLAS II. 

" 1 cannot understand such obstinacy. Why 
should you do without sleep and go ' with the 
people, 5 when you can go straight to the pavilion 
with your Aunt Vera, and see everything without 
any trouble? I told you Behr had promised to 
pass you through, though, as far as that's con- 
cerned, you have the right of entry as a maid of 
honour." 

It was thus that Prince Paul Golitsin — known 
in the aristocratic set as " Pigeon " — addressed 
his twenty-three-year-old daughter Alexandra, 
called for shortness' sake " Rina." 

The conversation took place in Moscow on 
17th May 1893 — on the eve of the popular fete 
held to celebrate the coronation. Rina, a strong, 
handsome girl, with a profile characteristic of 
her race — the hooked nose of a bird of prey — 
had long ceased to be passionately devoted to balls 

*The Khodinka is a large plain outside Moscow where the 
military often exercise. It was here that the people of Moscow 
assembled to celebrate the Tsar's accession, and where many- 
hundreds were crushed to death. 

261 



262 KHODINKA 

or social functions, and was, or at least considered 
herself to be, an " advanced " woman and a lover 
of " the people." She was her father's only 
daughter and his favourite, and always did what 
she wished. In this particular instance it occurred 
to her that she would like to go to the popular 
festival with her cousin, not at mid-day with the 
Court, but together with the people, the porter and 
the grooms of their own household, who intended 
to start in the early morning. 

" But, father, I do not want to look at the peo- 
ple; I want to be with them. I want to see how 
they feel towards the young Tsar. Surely for 
once . . ." 

" Well, well, do as you like. I know how ob- 
stinate you are." 

11 Don't be angry, father, dear. I promise to 
be careful, and Alec will not leave my side." 

Although the plan seemed wild and fantastic to 
her father, he gave his consent. 

" Yes, of course you may," he answered when 
she asked if she might have the victoria. " Drive 
to Khodinka and send it back." 

" All right." 

She went up to him, and he blessed her, as was 
his custom, and she kissed his big white hand, and 
they separated. 

There was no talk of anything but the morrow's 



KHODINKA 263 

festival among the cigarette-makers in the lodgings 
let by the notorious Marie Yakovlevna. Several 
of Emelian Tagodin's friends had met in his room 
to discuss when they should start. 

" It's not worth while going to bed at all. 
You'll only oversleep yourself," said Yakov, a 
bright youth who occupied a space behind a 
wooden partition. 

" Why not have a little sleep? " retorted Eme- 
lian. " We'll start at dawn. Every one says 
that's the thing to do." 

" Well, if we are going to bed, it's time we 



went." 



" But, Emelian, mind you call us if we don't 
wake up in time." 

Emelian promised he would, and, taking a reel 
of silk from a drawer in the table, drew the lamp 
nearer, and began to sew a missing button on his 
summer overcoat. When he had finished this job 
he laid out his best clothes and cleaned his boots, 
and, after saying several prayers — " Our Father," 
" Hail Mary," etc., the meaning of which he had 
never fathomed, and had not even been interested 
in — he took off his boots, and lay down on the 
crumpled, creaking bed. 

" Why not?" he said to himself. "There is 
such a thing as luck. Perhaps I shall get a lottery 
ticket and win." The rumour had spread among 



264 KHODINKA 

the people that, besides other gifts, some lottery 
tickets were to be distributed. " Well, the 10,000 
rouble prize is expecting too much, but one might 
win 500 roubles. What couldn't I do with it? 
I could send something to the old folk; I'd make 
my wife leave her situation: it's no sort of exist- 
ence living apart like this. I'd buy a good watch 
and a fur coat. As it is, it's one long struggle, 
and you're never out of your difficulties." 

He began to dream that he and his wife were 
walking around the Alexander Gardens, and that 
the same policeman who had taken him up a year 
ago for using bad language when he was drunk 
was no longer a policeman, but a general, and that 
this same general smiled at him and invited him 
to go to a neighbouring public-house with him to 
hear a mechanical organ. The organ sounded 
just like a clock striking, and Emelian awoke to 
find that the clock really was striking wheezily, 
and that the landlady was coughing behind his 
door. It was not quite so dark as it had been the 
night before. 

11 Don't oversleep yourself." 

Emelian got up, went barefooted across the 
room to the wooden partition to awake Yasha, and 
then proceeded to dress carefully, greasing and 
brushing his hair before the broken mirror. 

" I'm all right! That's why girls are so fond 



KHODINKA 265 

of me. Only I don't want to get into mischief." 

He went to the landlady, as arranged the day 
before, to get some food. He put a meat pie, 
two eggs, some ham, and a small bottle of vodka 
into a bag, and then left the house with Yasha 
and walked towards the Peter Park. 

They were not alone. Some were in front; 
others were hurrying up from behind. From all 
sides happy men, women, and children, dressed in 
their best, were collecting together, all going in 
the same direction. At last they reached the field 
called Khodinka. Its edges were black with peo- 
ple. It was cold in the early dawn, and here 
and there smoke was arising from the fires which 
were made from such twigs and branches as were 
available, Emelian found some friends who also 
had a fire, and round which they were sitting pre- 
paring their food and drink. The sun was rising 
clear and bright, and the general merriment was 
increasing. The air was filled with singing and 
chattering, and with jokes and laughter. Every- 
thing gave rise to pleasure, but still greater pleas- 
ures were in store. Emelian had a drink, and, 
lighting a cigarette, felt happier than ever. 

The people were wearing their best clothes, but 
several rich merchants, with their wives and chil- 
dren, were also noticeable among the well-dressed 
working men. Rina Golitsin, too, was remarka- 



266 KHODINKA 

ble as she walked at her cousin's side between the 
wood fires, happy and radiant at having got her 
own way, and at the thought of celebrating with 
the people the accession to the throne of a Tsar 
who was adored by them. 

" Here's to your health, good lady," cried a 
factory hand to her, raising his glass to his lips, 
" Don't refuse to break bread with us." 

11 Thank you." 

" You ought to answer 4 a good appetite to 
you,' " whispered her cousin, showing off his 
knowledge of popular customs, and they moved 
on. 

Accustomed to occupy the best places every- 
where, they penetrated through the crowd, going 
straight for the pavilion. The crowd was so dense 
that, notwithstanding the bright weather, a thick 
mist caused by the breath of the people, hung over 
the field. But the police would not let them pass. 

" I'm rather glad," said Rina. " Let us re- 
turn," and so they went back into the crowd. 

" Lies, all lies," said Emelian, seated with his 
companions in a circle round the food which was 
spread out on white paper — in answer to a young 
factory hand who, on approaching them, told them 
that the distribution of gifts had begun. 

" I tell you it is so. It's contrary to regula- 
tions, but they have begun. I saw it myself. 



KHODINKA 267 

Each one receives a mug and a packet and away 
they go." 

" Of course, what do the crazy commissionaires 
care? They give as they choose." 

" But why should they, how can they — against 
regulations? " 

" You see they can." 

" Let's go, friends. Why should we wait? " 

They all rose. Emelian pocketed his bottle with 
the remains of the vodka and advanced with his 
comrades. They had not gone more than twenty 
yards when the crowd became so dense that it was 
difficult to stir. 

" What are you pushing for? " 

" You're pushing yourself." 

" You're not the only one here." 

" That'll do." 

"Oh, Lord! I'm crushed!" cried a woman's 
voice. 

A child could be heard screaming on the other 
side. 

11 Go to — " 

" How dare you? Are you the only one? 
Everything will be taken before we get there. 
But I'll be even with them, the beasts, the devils," 
cried Emelian, squaring his stalwart shoulders and 
elbowing his way forward as best he could. See- 
ing every one else was elbowing and pushing he, 



268 KHODINKA 

without knowing exactly why, also began to try to 
force a way for himself through the crowd. On 
every side people were crushing him, but those in 
front did not move or let any one through their 
ranks — and all were shouting and shrieking and 
groaning. 

Emelian silently clenched his strong teeth and 
frowned, but without losing heart or strength he 
steadily continued to push those in front, though 
he made but little progress. 

All at once there was a sudden agitation; the 
steady surging and swaying was followed by a rush 
forward to the right. Emelian looked to that side 
and saw something whizz over his head and fall 
among the crowd. One, two, three — he realised 
what it meant, and a voice near him exclaimed: 

" Cursed devils — they are throwing the things 
among the crowd ! " 

The sound of screaming, laughing and groaning 
came from that part of the crowd where the bags 
were falling. Some one gave Emelian a severe 
blow in the ribs which made him even gloomier 
and angrier, but before he had time to recover 
from the blow some one else had trodden on his 
foot. Then his coat, his new coat, caught and was 
torn. With a feeling of maliciousness in his heart 
he exerted all his strength to advance when some- 
thing suddenly happened which he could not under- 



KHODINKA 269 

stand; and he found himself in an open space and 
could see the tents, where the mugs and packets of 
sweets were to be distributed. Up to then he had 
seen nothing but the backs of other people in front 
of him. 

He felt glad, but only for a moment, for he 
realised that the reason he could see all these 
was because those who were in front had reached 
the trench and were slipping or rolling over into 
it, and that he himself was knocked down on top 
of a mass of people. He was tumbling on those 
below, and others from behind him were in their 
turn tumbling on him. For the first time he felt 
afraid. As he fell, a woman in a woollen shawl 
stumbled over him. Shaking her off, he tried to 
turn round, but those behind prevented him and 
his strength began to fail. Then some one 
clutched his legs and screamed. He neither saw 
nor heard anything, but fought his way through, 
treading on human beings on all sides. 

" Friends, help, — take my watch — my gold 
watch," shrieked a man near him. 

" Who wants a watch now? " thought Emelian, 
climbing out to the other side of the trench. 

His heart was divided between fear — fear for 
himself and for his own life — and anger at those 
wild creatures who were pushing him. In spite of 
this, the aim with which he had set out — to reach 



270 KHODINKA 

the tents and get hold of a packet with a lottery 
ticket — still drew him on. 

The tents were now close at hand. He could 
see the distributors quite distinctly and could hear 
the cries of those who had arrived at the tents 
and the creaking of the boards on which the people 
in front were crowding. 

Emelian stumbled. He had only about twenty 
paces more to go when he heard a child's scream 
under or rather between his feet. Emelian looked 
down and saw a bare-headed boy in a torn shirt 
lying face downwards, crying incessantly, and 
clutching at his legs. He felt his heart stop beat- 
ing. All fear for himself immediately disap- 
peared and with it his anger against the rest. He 
was sorry for the boy and, stooping down, put his 
arm round his waist, but those behind him were 
pushing so violently that he nearly fell and let go 
the child. Summoning his strength for a supreme 
effort he caught him up again and lifted him on 
his shoulders. For a moment the crush became 
less and Emelian managed to carry off the child. 

" Give him to me," cried a coachman who was 
at Emelian's side, and taking the boy, raised him 
above the crowd. 

" Run over the people." 

Looking back, Emelian saw how the child 
walked further and further away, over the heads 



KHODINKA 271 

and shoulders of the swaying mass, now rising 
above it, now vanishing in the crowd. 

Emelian, however, continued to advance. He 
could not help doing so ; but he was no longer at- 
tracted by the gifts and had no desire to reach the 
tents. He thought of the little boy Yasha, of 
those who had been trampled on, and of those 
whom he had seen as he crossed the trench. 

When he reached the pavilion at last he received 
a mug and a packet of sweets, but they gave him 
no pleasure. What pleased him was that the 
crush was over, and that he could breathe and 
move about; but his pleasure, however, only lasted 
a moment, on account of the sight which met his 
eyes. A woman, in a torn striped shawl and in 
buttoned boots which stuck straight up, with her 
brown hair loose and in disorder, was lying on her 
back. One hand lay on the grass, the other, with 
closed fingers, was folded below her breast. Her 
face was white — that bluish white peculiar to 
the dead. She was the first who had been crushed 
to death and had been thrown over the fence right 
in front of the Tsar's pavilion. 

When Emelian caught sight of her, two police- 
men were standing over her, and a police officer 
was giving them directions. A minute after a few 
Cossacks rode up and no sooner had their officer 
given them some order, than they rode full speed 



272 KHODINKA 

at Emelian and at the others who were standing 
there, and drove them back into the crowd. Eme- 
lian was again caught in the whirl. The crush 
became worse than ever; and to add to the horror, 
one and the same everlasting crying and groaning 
of women and children, and men trampling their 
fellows under foot — and not able to help doing 
so. Emelian was no longer terrified or angry 
with those who were crushing him. He had but 
one desire — to get out, to be free, to have a smoke 
and a drink, and to explain the meaning of those 
feelings which arose in his mind. 

He longed for a smoke and a drink, and when 
at last he managed to get away from the throng, 
he satisfied his craving for these. 

It was not so with Alec and Rina. As they did 
not expect anything, they moved about among the 
people who were seated in groups, chatting with 
the women and children, when the whole people 
suddenly made a rush for the pavilion, the rumour 
having spread that the sweets and mugs were being 
given away contrary to regulations, and before 
Rina had time to turn round, she was separated 
from Alec and carried along by the crowd, and was 
overcome by terror. She tried to be quiet, but 
could not help screaming out for mercy. But 
there was no mercy, for they pressed round her 



KHODINKA 273 

more and more. Her dress was torn, and her hat 
also fell off. She could not be quite sure, but she 
thought some one snatched at her watch and chain. 
Though she was a strong girl and might have 
resisted, she was in mortal fear not being able 
to breathe. Ragged and battered she just man- 
aged to keep on her feet. 

But the moment the Cossacks charged the crowd 
to disperse it, Rina lost hope and directly she 
yielded to despair, her strength failed her and she 
fainted. Falling down she was not conscious of 
anything further. 

When she regained consciousness she was lying 
on the grass. A bearded working man in a torn 
coat was squatting beside her and squirting water 
into her face as she opened her eyes; the man 
crossed himself and spat out the water. It was 
Emelian. 

" Who are you? Where ami?" 

" You're on Khodinka field. Who am I? I'm 
a man, I've been badly crushed myself, but the 
likes of us can stand a good deal," said Eme- 
lian. 

"What's this?" Rina asked, pointing to the 
coppers that lay on her breast. 

" That's because people thought you were dead, 
they gave coppers for your burial. But I had a 



274 KHODINKA 

good look at you and thought to myself: 'No, 
she's alive,' and I got some water for you." 

Rina glanced at herself and seeing her torn dress 
and bare breast, felt ashamed. The man under- 
stood and covered her. 

44 You're all right, miss, you'll not die." 

People came up and also a policeman, while 
Rina sat up, and gave her father's name and ad- 
dress, and Emelian went for the cab. The crowd 
round her continued to increase. When Emelian 
returned with the cab, she rose, and refusing help, 
got into the vehicle by herself. She was so 
ashamed of the condition she was in. 

" Where is your cousin? " asked an old woman; 

" I don't know. I don't know," said Rina in 
despair. 

(On reaching home she learnt that Alec had 
managed to leave the crowd when the crush first 
began and he returned home safely.) 

" That man saved me," said Rina. " If it had 
not been for him, I don't know what would have 
happened." 

u What is you name?" she said, turning to 
Emelian. 

44 Mine? What does my name matter? " 

" She's a princess," a woman whispered in his 
ear. " Ri-i-i-ch." 

44 Come with me to my father, he will thank 



KHODINKA 275 

you." Suddenly the heart of Emelian seemed to 
be infused with a kind of strength so that he 
would not have exchanged this feeling for a lottery 
ticket worth 200,000 roubles. 

11 Nonsense, go home, miss. What is there to 
thank me for? " 

" Oh, no. I would so much rather. 

" Good-bye, miss, God be with you. But, there, 
don't take away my overcoat/ 5 and he showed his 
white teeth with a merry smile which lived in 
Rina's memory to console her for the most terrible 
moments of her life. 



INTRODUCTION TO " A MOTHER " 



INTRODUCTION TO " A MOTHER »» 

I had known Marie Alexandrovna ever since we 
were children. As so often happens with young 
people, there was no suggestion of love-making 
about our companionship, with the possible ex- 
ception of one evening when she was at our house 
and we played " Ladies and Gentlemen." She 
was fifteen, with plump, rosy hands, beautiful 
dark eyes, and a thick plait of black hair. I was 
so impressed by her during that evening that I 
imagined that I was in love with her. But that 
was the only time; during all the rest of our forty 
years' acquaintance we were on those excellent 
terms of friendship which exist between a man and 
a woman who mutually respect each other, which 
are so delightful when — as in our case — they 
are free from any idea of love-making. 

I got a lot of enjoyment out of our friendship, 
and it taught me a great deal. I have never 
known a woman who more perfectly typified the 
good wife, the good mother. Through her I 
learned much, and came to understand many 
things. 

279 



28o INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER" 

I saw her for the last time last year, only a 
month before her death, which neither of us ex- 
pected. She had just settled down to live alone 
with Barbara, her cook, in the grounds of a mon- 
astery. It was very strange to see this mother 
of eight children — this woman who had nearly 
fifty grandchildren — living alone in that way. 
But there was an evident finality about her deter- 
mination to live by herself for the rest of her days 
in spite of the more or less sincere invitations of 
her family. As I knew her to be, I will not say a 
free-thinker, for she never laid any stress on that, 
but one who thought for herself with courage and 
common sense, I was puzzled at first to see her 
taking up her abode in the precincts of a monas- 
tery. 

I knew that her heart was too full of real feeling 
to have any room for superstition, and I was well 
aware of her hatred of hypocrisy and of every- 
thing pharisaical. Then suddenly came this house 
close to the monastery, this regular attendance at 
church services, and this complete submission to 
the guidance of the priest, Father Nicodim, though 
all this was done unostentatiously and with moder- 
ation, as if she were somewhat ashamed of it. 

When we met it was evident that she wished to 
avoid all discussion of her reasons for choosing 
a life of that sort. But I think that I understood. 



INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER" 281 

Although she had a sceptical mind, it was dom- 
inated by the fulness of her heart. When, after 
forty years of household activity, she found that 
all her children had outgrown the need for her 
care, she was at a loose end, and it became neces- 
sary to seek some fresh occupation for her heart, 
some fresh outlet for her feelings. Since the 
homes of her children could not satisfy her crav- 
ings, she decided to go into retreat, hoping that 
she would find the solace which others found in 
seclusion, the consolation of religion. Though 
her pride, both on her own account and for the 
sake of her children, prevented her from giving 
more than the merest hint of the truth, there could 
be no doubt that she was unhappy. 

I knew all her children, and when I inquired 
after them she answered reluctantly, for she never 
blamed them. But I could see what a tragedy, 
or rather, what a series of tragedies lay buried in 
her heart. 

II Yes, Volodia has done very well," she said. 
" He is President of the Chamber, and has bought 
an estate. . . . Yes, his children are growing up 
— three boys and two girls," and as she stopped 
talking her black eyebrows were contracted into 
a frown, and I could see that she was making an 
effort to prevent herself from expressing her 
thoughts, trying to rid herself of them. 



282 INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER" 

" Well, and Basil?" 

11 Basil is just the same; you know the sort of 
man he is." 

" Still devoted to society? " 

" Yes." 

11 Has he any children? " 

" Three." 

That is how we talked when her sons and 
daughters were our subject of conversation. 

She would rather talk of Peter than of the 
others. He was the failure of the family — he 
had squandered all that he had, did not pay his 
debts, and caused his mother more distress than 
any of them. But he was her best-beloved in 
spite of his waywardness, for she saw, as she put 
it, his " heart of gold." 

There is often a peculiar charm about the rem- 
iniscences of those who have gone through hid- 
den sorrows, and it was only when we touched 
on the days of her careless youth that she let 
herself go. Our last talk was the best of them 
all, so delightful that I did not leave her home 
until after midnight. It was full of tender sym- 
pathy. It was about Peter Nikiforovich, the first 
tutor her children ever had. He was a graduate 
of Moscow University, and he died of consump- 
tion in her house. He was a remarkable man, 
and had exercised a great influence over her. 



INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER" 283 

Though she did not realise it, he was the only man 
whom she could, or did, love besides her husband. 

We talked about him and about his theories of 
life, views which I had known and shared at the 
time. He was not exactly a disciple of Rousseau, 
though he knew and approved of his theories, but 
he had a mind of the same type. He very much 
resembled our usual conception of the wise men 
of antiquity. He was full of the gentle humility 
of unconscious Christianity. Though he was con- 
vinced that he hated the teachings of Christianity, 
his whole life was one long self-sacrifice. He 
was obviously wretched when he could find no 
opportunity to deny himself something for the 
sake of others, and it must be something that 
could only be relinquished with suffering and diffi- 
culty. Then he was really happy. He was as in- 
nocent as a child and as tender as a woman. 

There may be some doubt as to whether she 
loved him; but there could be absolutely no doubt 
that she was his only love, his idol, for any one 
who ever saw him in her presence. To banish 
any shadow of question, it was quite enough to 
watch his great, round, blue eyes following her 
every movement, reflecting every shade of expres- 
sion on her face; frail and attenuated as he was, 
in his shapeless, ill-fitting coat, it was more than 
enough to see him draw himself up, to note how 



284 INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER" 

he bent or turned toward the spot which she occu- 
pied. 

Alexis Nicolaevich, her late husband, knew it, 
and did not mind in the least, frequently leaving 
him alone with her and the children for whole 
evenings. The children knew it. They loved 
both their mother and their tutor, and thought it 
only natural that their mother and their tutor, 
should love one another. 

Alexis Nicolaevich's only precaution was to call 
him " Peter the Wise." He, too, loved him and 
respected him; indeed, he could not help respect- 
ing him for his exceptional affectionate devotion to 
the children, and for the unusual loftiness of his 
morality; and never for a moment did he think of 
passion between him and his wife as a possibility. 
But I am inclined to believe that she did love him. 
His death was not only a deep grief, but a bereave- 
ment. Certain sides of her nature, the best, the 
fundamental, the most essential, withered away 
after his death. 

So we talked about him, and about his opinions 
on life; how he had believed that the highest 
morality lay in taking from others as little as 
possible, and in giving to others as much as pos- 
sible of oneself, of one's soul; and how, in order 
that one might take as little as possible, he believed 
that one should cultivate what Plato ranked as the 



INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER" 285 

highest virtue, abstinence: that one should sleep 
on a plank bed, wear the same clothing winter and 
summer, have bread and water for one's nourish- 
ment, or, as a great indulgence, milk. (That was 
how he had lived, and Marie Alexandrovna thought 
that that was how he had ruined his health.) He 
had held that, to equip oneself for giving to others, 
it was essential to develop one's spiritual forces, 
chief among which was love, dynamic love, de- 
voted to service in life, to uplifting of life. He 
would have brought up the children on these lines 
if he could have had his way; but their parents 
insisted upon some concession to convention, and 
an excellent compromise was adopted. But un-< 
fortunately, his regime did not last long, as he 
only lived with them for four years. 

" Just think of it," said Marie Alexandrovna, 
11 1 have taken to reading religious tracts, I listen 
to Father Nicodim's sermons, and believe me " — ■ 
here her smiling eyes shone with a glance so bright 
that it brought to mind the independence of 
thought which was so characteristic of her — " be- 
lieve me, all these pious exhortations are infinitely 
inferior to the sayings of Peter Nikiforovich. 
They deal with the same things, but on a much 
lower plane. But, above all, he taught one not 
so much by precept as by practice. And how 
did he do it? Why, his whole life was a flame, 



286 INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER" 

and it consumed him. Do you remember when 
Mitia and Vera had scarlatina — you were stay- 
ing with us — do you remember how he sat up at 
night with them, but insisted upon going on with 
his lessons with the older children during the day? 
He regarded it as a sacred duty. And then, when 
Barbara's boy was ill, he did the same thing, and 
was quite angry because we would not have the 
child moved to our house. Barbara was talking 
about him only the other day. Then when Vania, 
the page boy, broke his bust of some sage or other, 
do you remember how, after scolding him, he went 
out of his way to atone for his anger, begged the 
boy's pardon, and bought him a ticket for the 
circus. He was a wonderful man. He insisted 
that the sort of life we led was not worth living, 
and begged my husband to give up our land to the 
peasants and to live by his own labour. Alexan- 
der only laughed. But the advice had been given 
quite earnestly, from a sense of duty. 

11 He had arrived at that conclusion, and he was 
right. Yet we went on living just as others did, 
and what was the result ? I made a round of visits 
last year, to all my children except Peter. Well, 
what did I find? Were they happy? Still it was 
not possible to alter everything as he wanted. It 
was not for nothing that the first man fell and that 
sin came into the world." 



INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER" 287 

That was our last talk. " I have done a great 
deal of thinking in my loneliness," she said; " in- 
deed, I have done more than thinking ; I have done 
some writing," and she smiled at me with an air of 
embarrassment that gave her aged face a sweet, 
wistful expression. " I have put down my 
thoughts about all these things, or rather, the out- 
come of my experiences. I kept a diary before I 
was married, and afterwards too, for a time. 
But I gave it up later, when it all began, about ten 
years ago." She did not say what had begun, 
but I knew that she meant the strained relations 
with her older children, the misunderstandings, 
and the contentions. She had had the entire con- 
trol of the family estate after her husband's death. 
" In looking through my possessions here I found 
my old diaries and re-read them. There is a good 
deal in them that is silly, but there is a good deal 
that is good, and " — again the same smile — " in- 
structive, too. I could not make up my mind at 
first whether to burn them or not, so I asked 
Father Nicodim, and he said, ' Burn them.' But 
that was all nonsense, you know. He could not 
understand. So I didn't burn them." How well 
I recognised her characteristic illogical consistency. 
She was obedient to Father Nicodim in most 
things, and had settled near the monastery to be 
under his guidance ; but when she thought that his 



288 INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER" 

judgment was irrational, she did what seemed best 
to her. 

" Not only did I not burn them, I wrote two 
more volumes. There is nothing to do here, so I 
wrote what I thought about it all, and when I die 
— I don't mean to die yet: my mother lived to be 
seventy, and my father eighty — but when I do die 
these books are to be sent to you. You are to 
read them and to decide whether there is anything 
of real value in them, and if there is, you will let 
others share it. For no one seems to know. We 
go on suffering incessantly for our children, from 
before their birth until the time comes when they 
begin to insist on their rights. Think of the 
sleepless nights, the anxiety, the pain and the 
despair we go through. It would not matter if 
they really loved us, or even if they were happy. 
But they don't, and they aren't. I don't care what 
you say, there is something wrong somewhere. 
That is what I have written about. You will read 
it when I am dead. But I have said enough about 
it." 

I promised, though I assured her that I did not 
expect to outlive her. We parted, and a month 
later I received the news of her death. Feeling 
faint at vespers, she had sat down on a little fold- 
ing stool she carried with her, leaned her head 
against the wall, and died. It was some sort of 



INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER" 289 

heart trouble. I went to the funeral. All the chil- 
dren were there except Helen, who was abroad, 
and Mitia — the one who had had scarlatina — 
who could not go because he was in the Caucasus 
undergoing a cure for a serious illness. 

It was an ostentatious funeral, and its display 
inspired the monks with more respect for her than 
they had felt while she was alive. Her belongings 
were divided up rather as keepsakes than with a 
view to any intrinsic value. In momory of our 
friendship, I received her malachite paper-weight 
as well as six old leather-bound diaries and four 
new ordinary manuscript books in which, as she 
had said, she had written " about it all " while 
living near the monastery. 

The book contains this remarkable woman'si 
touching and instructive story. 

As I knew her and her husband throughout their 
life together, and watched the growth and devel- 
opment of her children from the time of their 
birth to the time of their marriage, I have been 
able to fill in any omission in her memoirs from 
my own reminiscences whenever it has seemed 
necessary to make the story more clear. 



THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 



THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 

It is the 3rd of May 1857, an d I begin a new 
diary. My old one covers a long period, but I 
did not write it properly; there was too much in- 
trospection, too much sentimentality and nonsense 
— about being in love with Ivan Zakharovich — 
the desire to be famous, or to enter a convent. I 
have just read over a good deal that was nice, 
written when I was fifteen or sixteen. But now 
it is quite different. I am twenty, and I really am 
in love and in a state of ecstasy. I do not worry 
myself with fears as to whether it is real, or 
whether this is what true love should be, or 
whether my love is inadequate; on the contrary, 
I am afraid that this is the real thing, fate; that 
I love far, far too much, and cannot help loving, 
and I am afraid. There is something serious and 
dignified about him — his face, the sound of his 
voice, his cheery word — in spite of the fact that 
he is always bright and laughing, arid can turn 
everything round so that it becomes graceful, 
clever, and humorous. Every one is amused, and 
so am I; yet there is something solemn about it. 

293 



294 THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 

Our eyes meet; they pierce deep, deep down into 
the other's, and go farther and farther. I am 
frightened, and I see that he is too. 

But I will describe it all in order. He is the 
son of Anna Pavlovna Lutkovsky, and is related 
to the Obolenskys and the Mikashins; his eldest 
brother is the Lutkovsky who distinguished him- 
self at the siege of Sevastopol, and he himself, 
Alexis,* is mine, yes mine! He was in Sevas- 
topol, too, but only because he did not want to 
be safe at home when other men were dying 
there. He is above ambition. After the cam- 
paign he left the army, and did some sort of work 
in Petersburg; now he has come to our province, 
and is on the Committee. He is young, but 
he is liked and appreciated. Michel brought 
him to our house, and he became intimate with us 
at once. Mother took a fancy to him, and was 
very friendly. Father, as usual with all young 
men who wished to marry his daughters, received 
him coldly. He at once began to pay attention 
to Madia, the sort of attention men do pay to girls 
of sixteen; but in my innermost heart I knew at 
once that it was I, only I did not dare to own 
it even to myself. He used to come often; and 
from the first day, although nothing was said, I 
knew that it was all over — that it was he. Yes- 

*" Peter" is the original. 



THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 295 

ter'day, on leaving, he pressed my hand. We 
were on the landing of the staircase. I do not 
know why, but I felt that I was blushing. He 
looked at me, and he blushed also ; and lost his 
head so completely that he turned round and ran 
downstairs, dropped his hat, picked it up, and 
stopped outside in the porch. 

I went upstairs and looked out of the window. 
His carriage drove up, but he did not get in. I 
leaned out to look into the porch. He was stand- 
ing there, stroking his beard into his mouth, and 
biting it. I was afraid he might turn round, and 
so I moved away from the window, and at the 
same moment I heard his step on the stairs. He 
was running up quickly, impetuously. How I 
knew I cannot say, but I went to the door and 
stood still, waiting. My heart ceased to beat; it 
seemed to stand still, and my breast heaved pain- 
fully, yet joyfully. Why I knew I cannot say. 
But I knew. He might very well have run up- 
stairs and said, " I beg your pardon, I forgot my 
cigarettes," or something like that. That might 
very well have happened. What should I have 
done then? But no, that was impossible. What 
was to be — was. His face was solemn, timid, 
determined, and joyful. His eyes shone, his lips 
quivered. He had his overcoat on, and held his 
hat in his hand. We were alone =* every one 



296 THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 

was on the veranda, " Marie Alexandrovna," * 
he said, stopping on the last step, " it's best to 
have it over once for all than to go on in misery, 
and perhaps to upset you." I felt ill at ease, but 
painfully happy. Those dear eyes, that beautiful 
forehead, those trembling lips, so much more used 
to smiling, and the timidity of the strong energetic 
figure ! I felt sobs rising to my throat. I expect 
he saw the expression on my face. 

" Marie Alexandrovna,* you know what I want 
to tell you, don't you? " 

11 1 don't know "... I began. " Yes, I do." 

" Yes," he went on, " you know what I mean 
to ask you, and do not dare." He broke off, and 
then, suddenly, as though angry with himself: 
11 Well, what is to be, will be. Can you love me 
as I love you ; be my wife. Yes or no ? " 

I could not speak. Joy suffocated me. I held 
out my hand. He took it and kissed it. " Is it 
really yes? Truly? Yes? You knew, didn't 
you. I have suffered so long. I need not go 
away? " 

" No, no." 

I said that I loved him, and we kissed; and that 
first kiss seemed strange and unpleasant rather than 
pleasant, our lips just touching the other's face, 

*" Barbara Nicolaevna" in the original. 



THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 297 

as though by chance. He went down and sent 
away his carriage, and I ran off to mother. She 
(went to father, who came out of his room. It 
was all over — we were engaged. It was past 
one when he left, and he will come again to- 
morrow, and the wedding will be in a month. 
He wanted it to be next week, but mother would 
not hear of it. 

It was fifty-seven years ago. The war was just 
over. The Voronov household was busy with 
wedding preparations. The second daughter, 
Marie,* was engaged to Alexis Lutkovsky.f 
They had known each other since childhood. £ 
They had played and danced together. Now he 
had returned from Sevastopol, with the rank of 
lieutenant. 

At the very height of the war he had left the 
civil service to join a regiment as an ensign. On 
his return he could not make up his mind what to 
do. He felt nothing but contempt for military 
service, especially in the Guards, and did not want 
to go on with it in time of peace. But an uncle 
wanted him to be his aide-de-camp in Kiev. A 
cousin offered him a post at Constantinople. His 

* " Barbara " in the original, 
t " Evgraf Lotukhine " in the original. 

t See p. 294 where she says, " Michel introduced him to our 
house," etc. 



298 THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 

ex-chief asked him to go bade to his former post. 
He had plenty of friends and relatives, and they 
were all fond of him. They were not quite fond 
enough of him to miss him when he was not 
there, but they were fond enough to say when he 
appeared (at least most of them) , " Ah, Alexis I * 
how jolly!" He was never in any one's way, 
and most people liked to have him about, though 
for very different reasons. He could tell stories, 
and sing or play the guitar in first-rate fashion. 
But, above all, he never gave himself any airs. 
He was clever, good-looking, good-natured, and 
sympathetic. While he was looking round and 
discussing where and with whom he should work, 
and while he was thinking the matter over and 
weighing it very carefully, notwithstanding his 
seeming indifference, he met the Voronovs in 
Moscow. They invited him to their country- 
house, where he went and stayed a week; then left, 
and a week later returned and proposed. 

He was accepted with great pleasure. It was a 
good match. He became engaged. 

" There's nothing to be particularly pleased 
about," said old Voronov to his wife, who was 
standing near his desk looking at him wist- 
fully. 

" He is good-natured." 

* " Grisha n in the original. 



THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 299 

" Good-natured, indeed! That's not the point. 
But, as a matter of fact, he has lived: he has lived 
a good deal. I know the Lutkovsky * stock. 
What has he got except good intentions and 
his service? What we can give them will not 
provide for them." 

" But they love one another, arid they havei 
been so frank about it," she said. She was so 
gentle and so mild. 

" Yes, of course, he's all right. They're all 
alike, but I wanted some one better for Marie.fj 
She is such an open-hearted, tender little soul, 
There was something else I had wished for. But 
it can't be helped. Come." And they left the 
room together. 

Just at first father seemed displeased. No, not 
exactly displeased, but sad, not quite himself. I 
know him. Just as though he did not like him. 
I cannot understand it; I am not the only one. It 
is not because I am engaged to him, but nobility, 
truthfulness, and purity are so clearly written all 
over his being that one could not find more of 
them anywhere. It is evident that what is in his 
mind is on his tongue: he has nothing to hide. 
He only hides his own noble qualities. He will 
not, he cannot bear to speak of his Sevastopol ex- 

* " Lotukhine " in the original, 
t " Barbara * in the original. 



3 oo THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 

ploits, nor about Michel. He blushed when I 
spoke of him. I thank Thee, Lord. I desire 
nothing, nothing more. 

Lutkovsky * went to Moscow to make prepar- 
ations for the wedding. He stopped at the chev- 
alier, and there on the stairway he met Souschov. 
" Ah, Alexis,f is it true that you are going to get 
married? " 

" Yes, it is true." 

" I congratulate you. I know them. It is a 
charming family. I knew your bride too. She 
is beautiful. Let us have dinner together." 

They dined together, and had first one bottle, 
then a second. 

" Let's be off. Let's drive somewhere; there's 
nothing else to do." 

They drove to the Hermitage, which had only 
just been opened. As they approached the thea- 
tre they met Anna. Anna did not know; but 
even if she had known he was going to be mar- 
ried, she would not have altered her manner, and 
would have smiled and shown her dimples with 
even more delight. 

" Oh, there, how dull you are; come along! " 
She took his hand. 

* " Lotukhine " in the original. 
t"Grisha" in the original. 



THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 301 

" Take care," said Souschov behind them. 
" Directly, directly." 

Lutkovsky * walked as far as the theatre with 
her, and then handed her over to Basil, whom he 
happened to meet there. 

11 No, it is wrong. I will go home. Why did 
I come? " 

Notwithstanding urgent requests to remain, he 
went home. In his hotel room he drank two 
glasses of seltzer water, and sat down at the table 
to make up his accounts. In the morning he had 
to go out on business — to borrow money. His 
brother had refused to lend him any, and so he 
had got it from a money-lender. He sat there 
making his calculations, and all the while his 
thoughts returned to Anna, and he felt annoyed 
that he had refused her, though he felt proud that 
he had done so. 

He took out Marie's f photograph. She was 
a strong, well-developed, slender Russian beauty. 
He looked at the picture with admiration, then 
put it in front of him and went on with his 
work. 

Suddenly in the corridor he heard the voices of 
Anna and Souschov. He was leading her 
straight to his door. 

* " Lotukhine " in the original, 
t " Barbara's " in the original. 



302 THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 

11 Alexis,* how could you? M 

She entered his room. 

Next morning Lutkovsky f went to breakfast 
with Souschov, who reproached him. 

11 You must know how terribly this would grieve 
her." 

11 Of course I do. Don't worry. I am as dumb 
as a fish. May I ^— » Alexis J has returned from 
Moscow, the same clear, child-like soul. I see he 
is unhappy because he is not rich, for my sake — 
only for my sake. Last night the conversation 
turned on children, on our future children. I can- 
not believe I shall have children, or even one 
child. It is impossible. I shall die of happi- 
ness. Oh, but if I had them, how could I love 
them and him? The two things do not go to- 
gether. Well, what is to be will be." 

A month later the wedding took place. In the 
autumn Lutkovsky § got a post in the Civil Serv- 
ice, and they went to St. Petersburg. In Septem- 
ber they discovered that she was going to be a 
mother, and in March her first son was born. 

The accouchement, as is usually the case, was 
unexpected, and confusion ensued just because 

* " Grisha " in the original, 
t " Lotukhine " in the original. 
t " Grisha " in the original. 
§ " Lotukhine " in the original. 



THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 303 

every one had wanted to foresee everything, and 
things actually turned out quite different. 

[This is only a fragment, and contains some inconsistencies 
and some confusion in the names, which have been corrected.— 
Editor.] 



FATHER VASILY: A FRAGMENT 



FATHER VASILY: A FRAGMENT 

It was autumn. Before daybreak a cart rattled 
over the road, which was in bad repair, and drove 
up to Father Vasily's double-fronted thatched 
house. A peasant in a cap, with the collar of his 
kaftan turned up, jumped out of the cart, and, 
turning his horse round, knocked with his big whip 
at the window of the room which he knew to be 
that of the priest's cook. 

"Who's there ?" 

11 1 want the priest." 

"What for?" 

" For some one who is sick." 

11 Where do you come from? " 

II From Vozdrevo." 

A man struck a light, and, coming out into the 
yard, opened the gate for the peasant. 

The priest's wife — a short, stout woman, 
dressed in a quilted jacket, with a shawl over her 
head and felt boots on her feet — came out and 
began to speak in an angry, hoarse voice. 

" What evil spirit has brought you here? " 

II I have come for the priest." 

307' 



3 o8 FATHER VASILY 

" What are you servants thinking about? You 
haven't lit the fire yet." 

" Is it time yet?" 

" If it were not time I shouldn't say anything." 

The peasant from Vozdrevo went to the 
kitchen, crossed himself before the ikon, and, mak- 
ing a low bow to the priest's wife, sat down on a 
bench near the door. 

The peasant's wife had been suffering a long 
time ; and, having given birth to a still-born child, 
was now at the point of death. 

While gazing at what was going on in the hut 
he sat busily thinking how he should carry off the 
priest. Should he drive him across the Kossoe, as 
he had come, or should he go round another way? 
The road was bad near the village. The river 
was frozen over, but was not strong enough to 
bear. He had hardly been able to get across. 

A labourer came in and threw down an armful 
of birch logs near the stove, asking the peasant to 
break up some of it to light the fire, whereupon 
the peasant took off his coat and set to work. 

The priest awoke, as he always did, full of life 
and spirits. While still in bed, he crossed himself 
and said his favourite prayer, " To the King of 
Heaven," and repeated " Lord have mercy on us " 
several times. Getting up, he washed, brushed 
his long hair, put on his boots and an old cassock, 



FATHER VASILY 309 

and then, standing before the ikons, began his 
morning prayers. When he reached the middle 
of the Lord's Prayer, and had come to the words, 
" Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them 
that trespass against us," he stopped, remember- 
ing the deacon who was drunk the day before, 
and who on meeting hirn muttered audibly, " Hyp- 
ocrite, Pharisee." These words, Pharisee and 
hypocrite, pained Father Vasily particularly be- 
cause, although conscious of having many faults, 
he did not believe hypocrisy to be one of them. 
He was angry with the deacon. " Yes, I for- 
give," he said to himself; "God be with him," 
and he continued his prayers. The words, " Lead 
us not into temptation," reminded him how he had 
felt when hot tea with rum had been handed to 
him the night before after vespers in the house of 
a rich landowner. 

Having said his prayers he glanced at himself 
in a little mirror which distorted everything, and 
passed his hands over his smooth, fair hair, which 
grew in a circle round a moderately large bald 
patch, and then he looked with pleasure at his 
broad, kind face, with its thin beard, which looked 
young in spite of his forty-two years. After this 
he went into the sitting-room, where he found his 
wife hurriedly and with difficulty bringing in the 
samovar, which was on the point of boiling over. 



310 FATHER VASILY 

" Why do you do that yourself? Where's 
Thekla?" 

44 Why do you do it yourself? n mocked his 
wife. " Who else is to do it? " 

44 But why so early? " 

44 A man from Vozdrevo has come to fetch you. 
His wife is dying." 

44 Has he been here long? " 

" Yes, some time." 

44 Why was I not called before? w 

Father Vasily drank his tea without milk (it 
was Friday) ; and then, taking the sacred elements, 
put on his fur coat and cap and went out into the 
porch with a resolute air. The peasant was 
awaiting for him there. 44 Good-morning, Mi- 
tri," said Father Vasily, and turning up his sleeve, 
made the sign of the cross, after which he 
stretched out his small strong hand with its short 
cut nails for him to kiss, and walked out on to the 
steps. The sun had risen, but was not yet visible 
behind the overhanging clouds. The peasant 
brought the cart out from the yard, and drove 
up to the front door. Father Vasily stepped 
quickly on the axle of the back wheel and sat down 
on the seat, which was bound round with hay. 
Mitri getting in beside him, whipped up the big- 
barrelled mare with its drooping ears, and the 
cart rattled over the frozen mud. A fine snow: 
was falling. 



FATHER VASTLY 311 

II 

Father Vasily's family consisted of his wife, 
her mother — (the widow of the former priest of 
the parish), and three children — two sons and a 
daughter. The eldest son had finished his course 
at the seminary, and was now preparing to enter 
the university; the second son — the mother's fa- 
vourite, a boy of fifteen — was still at the semi- 
nary, and his sixteen-year-old daughter, Lena, lived 
at home, though discontented with her lot, do- 
ing little to help her mother. Father Vasily him- 
self had studied at the seminary in his youth, 
and had done so brilliantly that, when he left in 
1840, he was at the top of his class. He then 
began to prepare for entrance into the ecclesiasti- 
cal academy, and even dreamt of a professor- 
ship, or of a bishopric. But his mother, the 
widow of a verger, with three daughters and an 
elder son who drank — lived in the greatest pov- 
erty. The step he took at that time gave a sug- 
gestion of self-sacrifice and renunciation to his 
whole life. To please his mother he left the 
academy, and became a village priest. He did 
this out of love for his mother though he never 
confessed it to himself, but ascribed his decision 
to indolence and dislike for intellectual pursuits. 
The place to which he was presented was a living 



312 FATHER VASILY 

in a small village, and was offered to him on con- 
dition that he would marry the former priest's 
daughter.* The living was not a rich one, for 
the old priest had been poor and had left a widow 
and two daughters in distress. Anna, by whose 
aid he was to obtain the living, was a plain girl, 
but bright in every sense of the word. She liter- 
ally fascinated Vasily and forced him to marry 
her, which he did. So he became Father Vasily, 
first wearing his hair short and afterwards long, 
and he lived happily with his wife, Anna Tik- 
honovna, for twenty-two years. Notwithstand- 
ing her romantic attachment to a student, the son 
of a former deacon, he was as kind to her as ever, 
as if he loved her still more tenderly, and wished 
to atone for the angry feelings which her attach- 
ment to the student had awakened in him. 

It had afforded him an opportunity for the same 
self-sacrifice and self-denial; the result of which 
was that he gave up the academy, and felt a calm, 
almost unconscious, inner joy. 

Ill 

At first the two men drove on in silence. . The 
road through the village was so uneven that al- 

*The custom of giving a living to a son-in-law is universal 
in Russia. The living is usually the dowry of the youngest 
daughter. 



FATHER VASILY 313 

though they moved slowly the cart was thrown 
from side to side, while the priest kept sliding off 
his seat, settling himself again and wrapping his 
cloak round him. 

It was only after they had left the village be- 
hind, and crossed over the trench into the meadow 
that the priest spoke. 

11 Is your wife very bad? " he asked. 

" We don't expect her to live," answered the 
peasant reluctantly. 

" It is in God's, not man's hands. It is God's 
will," said the priest. " There is nothing for it 
but to submit." 

The peasant raised his head and glanced at the 
priest's face. Apparently he was on the point of 
making an angry rejoinder, but the kind look 
which met his eyes disarmed him — so shaking 
his head he only said: " It may be God's will, 
but it is very hard on me, Father. I am alone. 
What will become of my little ones? " 

" Don't be faint-hearted — God will protect 
them." The peasant did not reply, but swearing 
at the mare, who had changed from a trot into a 
slow walk, he pulled the rope reins sharply. 

They entered a forest where the tracks were all 
equally bad, and drove along in silence for some 
time, trying to pick out the best of them. It was 
only after they had passed through the forest, 



3H FATHER VASILY 

and were on the high road which led through 
fields bright with springing shoots of the autumn- 
sown corn, that the priest spoke again. 

44 There is promise of a good crop," he said. 

44 Not bad," answered the peasant, and was 
silent. All further attempts at conversation on 
the part of the priest were in vain. 

They reached the patient's house about break- 
fast-time. 

The woman, who was still alive, had ceased 
to suffer, but lay on her bed too weak to move, 
her expressive eyes alone showing that life was 
not yet extinct. She gazed at the priest with a 
look of entreaty, and kept her eyes fixed on him 
alone. An old woman stood near her, and the 
children were up on the stove. The eldest girl, 
a child of ten, dressed in a loose shirt, was stand- 
ing, as if she were grown up, at a table near the 
bed, and resting her chin on her right hand, and 
supporting the right arm with her left, silently 
stared at her mother. The priest went to the bed- 
side and administered the sacrament, and turning 
towards the ikon, began to pray. The old woman 
drew near to the dying woman, and looking at 
her shook her head and then covered her face 
with a piece of linen; after which she approached 
the priest, and put a coin into his hand. He knew 



FATHER VASILY 315 

it was a five kopek * piece, and accepted it. At 
that moment the husband came into the hut. 

11 Is she dead? " he asked. 

M She is dying," said the old woman. 

On hearing this the girl burst into tears, mut- 
tering something. The three children on the 
stove began to howl in chorus. 

The peasant crossed himself, and going up to 
his wife, uncovered her face and looked at her. 
The white face was calm and still. He stood 
over the dead woman for a few minutes, then ten- 
derly covered the face again, and crossing himself 
several times, turned to the priest and said, — * 

" Shall we start ?" 

" Yes, we had better go." 

11 All right. I'll just water the mare." And 
he left the hut. 

The old woman began a wailing chant about the 
orphans left motherless, with no one to feed or 
clothe them, comparing them to young birds who 
have fallen from their nest. At every verse of 
her chant she breathed heavily, and was more and 
more carried away by her own wailing. The 
priest listened, and became sad and sorry for the 
children and wanted to help them. He felt for 
his purse in the pocket of his cassock, remember- 

* About three half-pence. 



3 i6 FATHER VASILY 

ing that he had a half-rouble (about a shilling) 
coin in it, which he had received from the land- 
owner at whose house he had said vespers the 
evening before. He had not found time to hand 
it over to his wife, as he always did with his 
money; and, regardless of the consequences, he 
took out the coin, and showing it to the old 
woman, put it on the window-sill. 

The peasant came in without his coat on and 
said that he had asked a friend to drive the priest 
back, as he had to go himself to fetch some boards 
for the coffin. 



IV 



Theodore, the friend who drove Father Vasily 
back, was a sociable, merry giant with red hair 
and a red beard. His son had just been taken as 
a recruit, and to celebrate the event, Theodore 
had had a drink, and was therefore in a particu- 
larly happy frame of mind. 

" Mitri's mare was tired out," he said; "why 
not help a friend? Why not help a friend? We 
ought to be kind to one another, oughtn't we? 
Now then, my beauty ! " he shouted to the bay 
horse with its tightly plaited tail, and touched it 
with the whip. 



FATHER VASILY 317 

11 Gently, gently," said Father Vasily, shaken 
as he was by the jolting. 

" Well, we can go slower. Is she dead? " 

11 Yes, she is at rest," said the priest. 

The red-haired man wanted to express his sym- 
pathy, but he also wanted to have a joke. 

" God's taken one wife, He'll send another," he 
said, wishing to have a laugh. 

" Oh, it is terribly sad for the poor fellow! " 
said the priest. 

" Of course it is. He is poor and has no one 
to help him. He came to me and said, 4 Take the 
priest home, will you; my mare can't do any 
more.' We must help one another, mustn't we? " 

" You've been drinking, I see. It's wrong of 
you, Theodore. It's a working-day." 

11 Do you think I drank at the expense of oth- 
ers? I drank at my own. I was seeing my son 
off. Forgive me, Father, for God's sake." 

11 It is not my business to forgive. I only say 
it is better not to drink." 

11 Of course it is, but what am I to do ? If I 
were just nobody — but, thank God, I am well off. 
I live openly. I am sorry for Mitri. Who could 
help being sorry for him? Why, only last year 
some one stole his horse. Oh, you have to keep 
a sharp eye on folk nowadays." 

Theodore began a long story about some horses 



318 FATHER VASILY 

that were stolen from a fair; how one was killed 
for the sake of its skin — but the thief was caught 
and was beaten black and blue, said Theodore, 
with evident satisfaction. 

" They ought not to have beaten him." 

" Do you think they ought to have patted him 
on the back? " 

While conversing in this manner they reached 
Father Vasily's house. 

Father Vasily wanted to go to his room and 
rest, but during his absence two letters had come 
— one from his son, one from the bishop. The 
bishop's circular was of no importance, but the 
son's letter gave rise to a stormy scene, which in- 
creased when his wife asked him for the half- 
rouble and found that he had given it away. Her 
anger grew, but the real cause was the boy's letter 
and their inability to satisfy his demands — due 
entirely to her husband's carelessness, she thought. 



THE END 



FEB 9 1912 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



FtB 9 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



000E3E714E4 



